


Against All Odds: Reunion

by ms_nawilla



Series: Against All Odds [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Education, Failed Relationship, Jumping to Conclusions, M/M, Making Friends, Post Mpreg, Promiscuity, Qui-Gon Jinn Lives, Relationship violence, Secret Child, Unfaithfulness, illegitimate child, satellite temple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-13 12:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 57,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17487734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_nawilla/pseuds/ms_nawilla
Summary: Qui-Gon and Anakin were not expecting to meet up with old friends and new when visiting a satellite temple.  It goes far better for apprentice than it does for master.  Qui-Gon discovers that the rumors about Obi-Wan's reputation are apparently true and Anakin discovers that not everyone cares about his reputation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I never did archive this longer fic at Master-Apprentice, only the prequels. (This was actually posted to the m-a mailing list, if people can remember back to when there were such things on the internet). Part of my January 2019 Fic rescue project (hopefully to be followed by some fic resurrection this year, but you know me, no promises. I have unfortunately worked insane jobs since 1999). 
> 
> Will post one chapter per day until complete. This story was actually finished, even if the series is open-ended.

Against All Odds

_How can I just let you walk away,\_

_Just let you leave without a trace?_

_When I stand here taking every breath with you, ooh_

_You're the only one who really knew me at all._

 

_How can you just walk away from me,_

_When all I can do is watch you leave?_

_’Cause we've shared the laughter and the pain_

_And even shared the tears._

_You're the only one who really knew me at all._

 

_So take a look at me now,_

_Oh there's just an empty space,_

_And there's nothing left here to remind me,_

_Just the memory of your face_

_Ooh take a look at me now,_

_well there's just an empty space,_

_And you coming back to me is against all odds_

_And that's what I've got to face . . ._

_\--Against All Odds,_ Phil Collins,

  

Anakin Skywalker tensed as he entered the classroom.  Spending time at the satellite temple here on Silva was stimulating to say the least, but dealing with the children was exhausting to say the most.  _Face it Jedi-Boy, dealing with Master Qui-Gon is even more exhausting than the children._   The sixteen-year old Jedi apprentice ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and tried not to sigh.  For once, rather than helping him deal with the usual, and not so usual tensions that came from sharing a bond with one of the more unconventional masters in the order, the Force seemed to be exacerbating the problem.  Unlike his often-moody self, he had been rather jumpy for the past few days, while his master had been . . . stoic.  _Well, Master Qui-Gon is always stoic.  This isn’t the normal Jinn stoicism.  This has been the calm, serene, emotionless stoicism._   That very morning he had told Anakin in no uncertain terms to stop fidgeting with his braid.  This could mean only one thing; if Master Qui-Gon had had a braid, he surely would have been playing with it too.  Whatever was causing his own jumpiness was also making his master just as jittery.  _If only he would Sith-damn admit it_.  Frowning and chewing his lip, a serious breach of etiquette had this been a diplomatic mission, Anakin decided that whatever was causing this anxiousness, _not anxiety, but definitely restless anxiousness_ had to be coming from the Force itself, because every time he tried to release it to the Force, it just got worse.  After another failed meditation, Padawan Skywalker was pretty sure he knew why too.

Something was going to happen.

With a slight grunt, Anakin settled onto a floor pillow next to one of the junior initiate-sized chairs.  His shoulders were still sore from sabre practice and his backside complained where he had fallen during the gymnastics seminar his master had sent him to that morning.  Silva may only host a satellite temple designed for temporary retreat and a permanent class of a small group of padawans and those junior initiates from this region of space, but they had an excellent gymnastics program, if the inter-Temple competitions were anything to go by.  Despite being more than ten times smaller than the Temple on Coruscant in terms of student body, they had won the gymnastics competition at the junior initiate and junior padawan level in nearly all of the past three years.  _They even beat the Corellian team._   Ani glanced down at his sabre.  The Silvan temple teams were making their presence known in that competition too.  _No wonder Master Qui-Gon wanted to come here so much.  He doesn’t want us to lose the title._  

The sound of orderly steps in the hall and happy giggles in the Force greeted his senses; the initiates were arriving.  The instructors at the Silvan temple were accustomed to many Jedi passing through between destinations or partaking of the temple hospitality while communing with the varied wildlife, landscapes and seasons of this world.  It was not uncommon for a padawan from another temple to be assigned to help out for the day like Anakin was now.  While no less educational than the strict routine of the main temple on Coruscant, customs here were more relaxed.  The pace was no less intense, the expectations no lower, but life moved less rigidly.  It was not forced into square pegs for square holes and square minds the way the city planet, and subsequently the temple often was.  Here the wilderness flowed into the country, the country into the town, the town into . . . well a bigger town with a nightlife that shut down hours before the dawn, the number of hours depending on the time of year.  Here, there was a movement of life less ordered and more rugged than the paths of cloud cars through the Coruscant sky, but somehow it seemed to flow more easily, more naturally.  Like the Living Force. 

 _Master Qui-Gon must love it here._ Or he would, Anakin decided if they weren’t currently being harassed by the Unifying Force.

Harassment.  That was the only way to describe it.  It kept teasing with hints of unease, not impending danger, just unease but when he concentrated he didn’t get anything but more . . . ‘pay attention’.  Of course Qui-Gon, Mr. Live-in-the-Moment, Screw-the-Future was no help.  As far as he was concerned the Living Force was supreme and the Unifying Force could just . . . well Qui-Gon didn’t get it either and that was just fine with him. 

Except when they got harassed.

The door opened and the instructor, a tall Bothan, led his students into the room.  There they were.  Twenty or so five and six-year olds.  Mostly humanoid.  All Sith Hell was about to break loose.

“Class, say ‘hello’ to Padawan Skywalker.  He’s going to help us fingerpaint today.”

“Hello Padawan Skywalker,” replied the hellions obediently.

The Unifying Force agreed with Anakin.

 

* * *

 

An hour and a half later found Anakin handing out juice and cookies, covered in a rainbow variety of fingerpaint spots, and still being harassed by the Unifying Force.  Sith Hell had indeed broken loose when the sticky, crumby, giggling little monsters had entered the room, but oddly enough the harassment hadn’t dissipated; it had intensified.  Whatever the Unifying Force was trying to warn him about, clearly it wasn’t the Gestren boy running with safety scissors, the Wookie child trying to levitate paint cups or the small human girl eating the paste. 

It still wouldn’t leave him alone.

Glancing at the chronometer, Anakin heaved a sigh of relief.  Class would be over after everyone cleaned up from snack time and their paintings had dried.  He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to take them back to the initiate wing himself.  The rowdy little demons seemed to collectively think he was a pushover.

Which surprisingly, in and of itself was a nice, altogether new feeling.  It had taken quite a while to figure out why, but when he did he was unexpectedly warmed, rather than annoyed by it.  Back home on Coruscant even the smallest initiates behaved like perfect little Jedi around him.  They remembered their pleases and their thank yous, remembered to bow, remembered to be quiet; well, they did when they remembered to do anything other than stand there looking at him with big frightened eyes.  He was The Chosen One after all; he could squish them like a bug with the flicker of an eyelash.  It was behave or face the wrath of Anakin Skywalker: Volunteered Classroom Aide.  But not here.  No, here on Silva Anakin was just another face with a braid coerced into finger-painting assistance.  The initiates here had never heard of The Chosen One outside of story-hour.  Or if they were older than five, maybe in class.  The Chosen One was some shiny stick figure in a book somewhere, not the tall padawan handing out juice cups and wiping up spills.  _Although the wise sages of the past had neglected to mention The Chosen One’s custodial duties in all that prophesy._  

He was just about to laugh at himself yet again when the Unifying Force gave him another poke and he almost spilled the juice jug. Rolling his eyes, the young padawan wished the Force would just let happen whatever was going to happen or leave him alone.  _As if I could get so lucky_.

“Padawan Skywalker?” asked the Bothan, a bit unsure he was getting the name correct.  When Anakin nodded, he continued.  “I have to take most of the children down to the crèche right now.  Would you be willing to stay here with those who are waiting to be picked up?”

“Picked up?”  _Am I supposed to carry them there?_  

The Bothan looked at him strangely a moment, then nodded in understanding.  “You’re from the Coruscant Temple, aren’t you?”  Again Anakin nodded, and again the Bothan continued.  “Many of the children taught here on Silva have parents who live and teach at the Temple.  They are cared for in the crèche when their parents are on missions but live with their families the rest of the time.  Today’s teaching period is coming to an end so several will be coming by to pick up their tiny terrors.”  The Bothan’s eyes twinkled and Anakin laughed at the description.

“The children don’t mind leaving their parents half the time?” he asked earnestly, remembering the pain of leaving his own mother, the first time and every time since.

The tall Bothan shrugged, shedding a bit.  “Of course they miss their parents, but as they get older, they learn to value having had any at all.  I know our ways are very different from how you handle things in Coruscant, but here we feel it works out best for everyone involved.”

Anakin finished wiping up spilt juice and tried to smile in a reassuring manner while the Unifying Force gave him a mental poke in the ribs yet again.  “I understand.  I miss my mother too.  I don’t mind waiting around as long as there aren’t too many of them.” 

The Bothan smiled and turned to his class, clapping his hands.  As if by magic, twenty pairs of little eyes looked up at him instantly and twenty-one pairs of little hands stopped whatever they were doing. 

“Very good Class.  Alright now, you know the drill.  How many of you are to be picked up after class today?”  Six hands shot up into the air.  Anakin noted with relief that two of those hands were attached to one child.  “Alright,” continued the Bothan instructor.  “Colby, Queese, Jexin, Venda and Aeris, stay here with Padawan Skywalker.  He will read you a story until your parents or guardians arrive.  The rest of you come with me.”  One young boy with bright red hair kept his hand raised, large eyes seeking his teacher’s attention.  “Yes, Aeris.”

The child lowered his hand, swallowed a bit, then spoke in a quiet voice.  “History finals are today.”  The instructor looked at him blankly.  Another swallow and he continued.  “Wem has to teach late.”

Comprehension dawned on the art instructor.  “Your wem might be late?” he asked.  At the small boy’s nod, he turned back Anakin.  “How late can you stay?”

Anakin glanced at the chronometer.  “I’m not sure.  Another half an hour or so.  My master is supposed to meet me here then, but I don’t think we have anything scheduled until the transport tomorrow.”

“Alright.” The Bothan walked to the slate board at the front of the class, erasing the day’s lesson.  “In that case, please stay until your master arrives.” He turned to the child.  “If your wem hasn’t arrived by then, go to the crèche with Padawan Skywalker.”  The child opened his mouth to reply or protest, but the teacher cut him off with a smile.  “I’m writing your wem a note now Aeris.”  Anakin grinned as the small child puzzled over the “Aeris to crèche, —XZ” his instructor wrote on the boards, but after a moment, the child nodded in approval and joined his four classmates on what was apparently the story time rug.

“Come class, off to the crèche to wash up.” Mental protests tinged the Force around the remaining children, but they lined up obediently.  The Bothan leaned over to Anakin as he joined the children on the rug.  “Watch out for Jexin,” he advised, pointing to a four-armed Quetran boy.  “Don’t let him push you around.”  Jexin tried to look innocent.  “Behave for Padawan Skywalker,” instructed the Bothan and soon the double line of crèche-bound students left.

Anakin stared down at the five remaining.  A human girl, a human boy, a Quetran, something male and hairy, and an unidentified humanoid.  “Hi,” Anakin began and the Force twinged again.

“Hello Padawan Skywalker,” the children responded in unison. 

Ani blinked.  No matter how many times they did that, whether here or on Coruscant, it was still damn unnerving.

“Um, I guess I’m supposed to read you a story.” After placing each one of them in the Force, he turned to the bookshelf behind him.  “Do you have a story you would prefer?”

“Pirates!”

“Jedi!”

“Animals!”

Anakin closed his eyes and counted to five.  Then he opened them and turned back to the group.  He didn’t know them very well, but he was pretty sure both ‘pirates’ and ‘animals’ had come from Jexin’s lips.  “A story with pirates, Jedi and animals?” he asked.  The Quetran nodded eagerly.  For his part, Ani bit his lip and fought the urge to swear.  “Do any of these books have stories like that?”  The Quetran shrugged, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I think I know one,” said a small voice quietly.  Ani looked over when he noticed the small, red-haired boy had crept up next to him, then leaned over when the child started whispering.  “It doesn’t matter which book you choose.  They don’t have words, just pictures.  You have to make the story up.”  After scanning the shelf for a good thirty seconds, the boy pulled out a colorful picture book with gilt pages, and handed it to Anakin. 

Reaching for the book he gave the boy a grateful smile.  “Thanks, ki—Aeris.”  The boy looked up at him with a bright smile just as he touched the book and for a moment the Force rose to such an intensity Anakin wondered if he was standing in a puddle and Jexin had thrown some sort of electrical appliance into it.

 _PAY ATTENTION_ the Force was screaming.  _This is IMPORTANT_.  And it was.  Anakin just couldn’t figure out why.

The boy was a beautiful child.  Hair red, as if the summer sun had set in his just slightly curly locks.  Big blue eyes bright like the skies over Naboo.  Strong chin, well proportioned nose.  Skin fair and smooth like the linen of his dress uniform.  And a smile as wide as a cruiser, minus one pearly front tooth.  Other than the tooth he could be an elf in one of the magic stories Padme had told him as a child.  He was enchanting.

And for the life of him, Anakin could not figure out who it was he looked like.

Shaken, but determined not to show it, the young padawan did not allow his smile to falter as he gave his charge a little nudge back toward the others and settled down to ‘read’.  _I must know one of his parents_ , he decided.  _Maybe it’s someone who used to live at the Temple when I was younger, or he has a cousin who is a padawan or something._   The Silvan temple was barely a decade old and was still growing; it was highly likely that the boy’s parents may have still lived on Coruscant when he had first arrived.  _Maybe his mother or father was on the transport over?_   With a mental head shake, Anakin decided against this.  There had been no human Jedi on the transport other than himself and Qui-Gon Jinn.  A Wookie, a Twi-lek and a . . . a creature like Master Yoda, but no other humans.  He shrugged at himself and began the story.  Like Master Qui-Gon said, the Force would reveal itself in time. 

At least now he knew what he was supposed to be paying attention to . . . maybe.

 

* * *

 

One by one, the parents came.  First a human woman who looked exactly like her little girl.

“Venda?” the blond woman called from the door, and the child stood obediently.  Anakin raised an eyebrow when the child didn’t go toward the woman who was so clearly her mother.  He turned when he felt a tug on his sleeve.

“You’re supposed to ask her if that’s her parent or garden,” whispered Aeris.  It took a moment for Ani to catch on.

“Venda, is this your parent or guardian?”

The little blond girl, no more than five years old, turned toward him, smiling.  “Yes, that’s my mother, Knight Kess.”  Anakin nodded at the girl and she scurried across the room to her mother, now crouching down, arms outstretched.  Once safely shielded in her mother’s arms, Venda turned back, waving.  “Thank you for the story, Padwin Sky-yalka.”  Ani smiled and gave her the benefit of the doubt.  Jexin laughed at her and the other children scowled at him, but Venda, already being carried out in the arms of her mother, took no notice. 

Anakin had to swallow a lump in his throat before he could continue.

The hairy boy’s father came next, a rather small man resembling Councilor Rancissis.  Anakin was still not sure what species they were, but followed the same routine. 

“Queese, is this your parent or guardian?”

The brown, furry face broke into a wide grin, revealing a row of sharp canines, the front two missing.  “Yeth, thath my faver, Mather Thipthin.”  Anakin looked at the master questioningly.

“I’m Master Thipsin.  Thank you for looking after my Queese.”  Ani nodded and Queese hurried off with his father.  Jexin began to imitate Queese’s lisp but a sharp-eyed glance from Anakin nipped that in the bud. 

 _Two down, three to go._   When he caught Colby’s attention once more, he continued the story, carefully not thinking about how long it had been since someone had referred to him as ‘my Anakin’.

He had just managed to work into the story a pirate who stole exotic animals who was being tracked by the Jedi, naturally named Jexin at Jexin’s insistence, when a humanoid of undetermined species or gender rapped on the doorframe, hair askew and healer’s robes wrinkled by long hours in the infirmary.

 _Why couldn’t it be Jexin’s parent?_   Stifling a sigh, Anakin turned to Colby.  “Colby, is this your parent or guardian?”

The child brightened.  “Yes Padawan Skywalker.  This is my patrem, Healer Kleastron.”

The young Jedi furrowed his brow.  “Your patrem?”

“You’re not from around here, are you Padawan?” the healer asked.

“No Healer Kleastron.  I’m from the Coruscant Temple.” 

The healer nodded.  “It’s not a term that’s very common in the core worlds, but it just means biological father.  It’s more widely used near the Inner Rim in societies where hermaphroditism is more common.  A patrem may externally be male or female, but biologically he or she is the child’s father.”

Anakin nodded.  This still didn’t help him to figure out if the person before him was male . . . or female . . . or both, . . . and Master Qui-Gon had told him often there really was no way to tell outside of an organ scan, but he hadn’t quite believed him before.  _Surprise Padawan, your master was right again._   Smiling slightly to himself, he realized at least his master wasn’t here to give him the I-told-you-so look.  He turned to the little . . . child.

“Alright Colby.  Have a good time with your patrem.”

Colby grinned.  “Thanks Padawan Skywalker.  You have a good time too.”  The child jumped up and dashed over to . . . to the child’s patrem and hand in hand they left.

“Was that Anakin Skywalker?” he heard the healer ask as the pair left.  Ani rolled his eyes.  Every healer in the Jedi order had heard of him.  For some reason they expected him to look noticeably different from every other padawan, human or otherwise, spouting midi-chlorians from his fingertips or something.  He had always thought healers should be smarter than that.  _Maybe that’s why I prefer med-droids._

“And then there were two.” Jexin and Aeris looked up at him and he picked up the book once more, trying to remember where they had left off before Jexin decided to revise the story. 

The tale was nearly finished, or rather Anakin was running out of plot when a large, four-armed man in custom-designed knight’s robes entered the classroom.

“Jexin!” he called, and the mischievous boy who had been pulling fibers out of the rug with all four hands no matter how may times Ani had told him not to jumped to his feet.  Quick as a flash, before the child could scurry over to the knight, Anakin snatched the back of his tunic in a parasteel grip.

“Jexin,” he asked with a mixture of sweet relief and anticipation.  “Is this your parent or guardian?” 

The Quetran boy rolled his eyes, knowing that it would have reflected poorly on the padawan in charge had he been allowed to run up to a person who might very well be a stranger.  “Yes,” he admitted after a moment and a stern look from his father.  “This is my father, Knight Hok’lem.”  The child had turned to face him when he spoke, and had subsequently bathed Anakin in a spray of spittle likely not actually required by the alien tongue.

“Alright Jexin,” he blinked.  “You may go.”  He let go of the boy’s tunic and smiled at him, shielding his annoyance.  Jexin seemed disappointed by the padawan’s lack of reaction to the saliva and stared back a moment before a grunt from his father had him running over.  When both were out of earshot, Anakin heaved a sigh of relief.  He turned to the one remaining child and the Force seemed to whip through him again for a moment, like a harsh wind.  The harassment hadn’t dissipated, but the boy seemed for the most part unaware of it.

“Here,” the child offered a slightly frayed, but very white handkerchief.  “Jexin spits.”

Anakin took the offer gratefully and wiped his nose and his face next to his left eye.  “Yes, he does.”  He handed back the cloth.  “Are these standard issue for initiates here on Silva?” he asked with a smile as the boy tucked it away in a pocket.

“No,” the boy giggled, shaking his head.  “My wem makes me carry them.”

“I see,” Anakin nodded.  He was about to question the child further, including how much longer he thought his wem would take in getting here, but the Force rose in intensity once more and drove the questions from his mind.  _I’m paying attention!_   His hand fell to his lightsabre hilt; this was really starting to worry him now.  He still didn’t sense danger, or even impending doom, but still there was something coming.  Something important.  Something upon which possible futures balanced.

“You have a nice lightsabre.”

Firmly moving his hand away from his sabre, Anakin tried to cover his anxiety.  _Yes, after days of relentless picking and poking, this has definitely become full-blown anxiety._ He wondered if this was really what the Force was telling him to be anxious now, or whether his emotions were due simply to the cumulative effects.  “Thank you.  My master helped me build it.”

Aeris nodded.  “I can’t build my first sabre for two more years.  All I get to practice with is a foam stick.” 

“How old are you?”

“Six,” the boy replied.  “We don’t get to build sabres until we’re eight after they send us to Coruscant.  But if we’re good enough, we get to use practice sabers when we’re seven.”  Despite his anxiety, Anakin’s mouth twitched at the boy’s anticipation.

“If it makes you feel better,” he said confidentially.  “I didn’t get to use a practice sabre until I was ten.”  The boy’s shocked expression was priceless.  “And I didn’t get to build a sabre until I was eleven.  Well, actually I didn’t build one that worked until then.”

“Did you miss a lot of class?” Aeris asked earnestly.  “Jexin got really sick and missed a lot of class, and that’s why he’s older than us.” 

 _Well that explains some things._ Anakin shook his head.  “No, I didn’t start training until I was nine.  I had to catch up on a lot of lessons before they started lightsabre training.”

“Wow,” the boy said thoughtfully.  “It must have been hard to wait when everyone else got to build one.”

“It was,” Anakin admitted, surprised at the boy’s insight.  “How did you know?”

Aeris shrugged.  “I guess I understand, sort of.  When I was four I wanted to start Jump Dance like everyone else,” Anakin nodded, recognizing the name for the pre-martial arts class for the junior initiates, “but Master Gurm said I was too small and had to wait until next term.  I was really upset, but Wem helped me not feel so bad about it and taught me lightsabre moves instead.”  The last was whispered as if this Wem probably wasn’t supposed to do that.  

Ani grinned.  _I think I’m starting to like this Wem._   “Your wem teaches lightsabre classes?”

Aeris nodded.  “Sometimes.  And gym stuff.  And different languages.  And something called Polly Sigh.  I don’t know who Polly Sigh is, but Wem is teaching history today.”

“Polly Sigh?” Anakin couldn’t completely stop the laugh this time.  “I think you mean political science.  It’s about governments and diplomacy and law and things like that.”  Anakin laughed harder as Aeris wrinkled his nose in disgust.  “Let me rephrase it, boring adult things like that.”

“Yeah,” Aeris agreed.  “That sounds like Wem.”

Anakin opened his mouth to chuckle at the child’s matter-of-fact reply when it happened again.  He felt the Force rise again, but this time it didn’t come down again.  Instead it rose higher, like a tidal wave, higher and higher, like the sharpest woodwind in an orchestra, the note being held out, screaming far above the rest of the instruments.  Barely aware of it, Aeris looked to the door expectantly.

Qui-Gon Jinn entered the room.

“Anakin, are you finished up here—”

The wave toppled, crashing into the shore.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

In all of his years as Qui-Gon Jinn’s apprentice, Anakin would only have one memory of his master looking more shocked than he did when he entered that classroom.  Eyes riveted to Aeris’s own, face pale, back ramrod straight, the venerable Jedi Master looked as if he were eye to eye with six-thousand pound rancor rather than a six-year-old boy.  Aeris gazed back, mildly curious.

“Master?” Anakin asked, closing the book and getting to his feet.  He was starting to grow more than a little concerned as Qui-Gon continued to stare at the child.  The Force fluctuated wildly, but the padawan doubted his elder was even aware of it at this point. 

Aeris looked at the Jedi master a bit oddly, not exactly suspiciously, but as if he was keenly aware that something was not quite right with him.  Shrugging a bit, the boy ran a hand through his hair, then picked up the dropped book to put it away.

Qui-Gon winced at the child’s gesture, as if slapped across the cheek, but whatever it was about the boy’s actions, the simple motion, or perhaps the turning away of his eyes, something he had done had clearly snapped the older man out of his unnerving paralysis.

“Master?” Anakin asked more urgently, touching his forearm in concern.  Anakin flinched as his master whipped his head around to stare at him, as if he had completely forgotten his own apprentice was in the room.

“Who . . . who is that?”

Anakin looked down at the child, who was now once more sitting cross-legged on the rug.  “He’s one of the students here.”  Anakin twitched slightly; the Force was still dancing through the room, in almost a frenzy.  “His name is Aeris.”  Later Anakin would wonder why it didn’t occur to either of them to ask the child’s surname, but for now the Force was distraction enough from such mundane details.  And yes, such details did seem rather mundane, because as Anakin was beginning to suspect, Qui-Gon Jinn had a much better idea about why the Unifying Force was so uncharacteristically demanding their attention.

After a considerable internal struggle, Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn seemed to pull himself together.  Anakin could not sense any emotions from him after the initial shock; Qui-Gon had shielded himself tightly not just from his apprentice, but from everyone.  After taking several deep breaths, he slowly made his way over to the rug and crouched down in front of the child.

“Ae—,” he began, but when his voice cracked he cleared his throat and tried again.  “Aeris?”

The child clamped his mouth shut and clenched his hands, but did not speak.

“Are you alright Aeris?” Anakin asked.  _Maybe he is aware of what’s going on._

The child looked at him, hauntingly familiar eyes tickling at his brain.  “I’m not allowed to talk to strangers.”

Anakin blinked.  If he hadn’t been so unnerved it would have been funny.  A bit unsure as to whether or not he should be doing so, Anakin introduced them.  “Aeris, this is my master, Master Jinn.  Master Jinn, this is Aeris.”

Aeris regarded the much larger Jedi cautiously.  “Hello Master Jinn.”

Anakin watched with concern and confusion as his master performed a subtle breathing exercise to calm himself before he disturbed the child.  Unfortunately, either the child was himself familiar with the exercise or he was simply perceptive.

“Are you alright Master Jinn?”  The child craned his neck gazed up at the tall Jedi, who even crouching down was so much taller than he.  Anakin stared back and forth, between the child’s earnest expression in his evermore teasingly familiar face and his master’s emotionless mask, now cracked by the slight trembling clench of his jaw beneath his beard.

“Ye—” Anakin winced as Qui-Gon’s voice cracked yet again.  “Yes Aeris.  I’m just surprised to meet you.”

The child raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Qui-Gon flinched.  “Why?”

The Jedi master opened his mouth, false polite reasons poised on his lips meant to reassure a child.  Aeris furrowed his brow and crossed his arms suspiciously.  In response, Qui-Gon turned a shade paler, lips quivering as the little white lies died on his lips.

“Why?” the child asked again stubbornly.  Anakin was impressed even as he was astounded at his master’s behavior.  Lying to children was bad enough; trying to lie to children strong in the Force was just stupid.  _Probably why he never bothers lying to me.  Of course, when has he ever lied to me?_ Anakin stared at his master; he looked stunned.  Horrified.  Aghast.  It remained to be seen as to why, although the Force even now swirling about them seemed to know all about it.

For a moment, the Force seemed to pause, as Qui-Gon Jinn took a deep breath and slowly released it.  The time for truth was now.  Anakin focused his attention on the moment as best he could.  Aeris continued to wait for his answer, arms crossed and head cocked in query in that itchingly familiar manner.  Qui-Gon spoke.

“I think I know your father.  I didn’t know he had any children.”

_Aha!  He does know something!_   Anakin turned back toward the child.  _Who is he?_

Aeris shrugged in response.  “Oh.”

_Oh?!_   Anakin glanced back at his master, who looked just as confounded as he felt.  _Come on Master Diplomat, say something back!_

“Do you know where I can find him?”  Qui-Gon’s eyes flashed a moment, and Anakin blinked in surprise.  It had only been there for a second, but it could only mean one thing.  “It’s clear I haven’t spoken with him in much too long.”  Qui-Gon was getting angry. 

Very angry.

The child still looked at him suspiciously.  Anakin was fairly sure Aeris was still for the most part unaware of the strange currents in the Unifying Force, but the child was clearly reading his master’s emotions, if not through the Force, then perhaps through body language and other cues.  He was quite the diplomat for a six-year-old.  _He might even outfox my master when he comes of age._

“No, I cannot,” Aeris replied at last.  “I don’t know who my father is.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes widened suddenly, flashing brightly and Anakin backed away a step, half-reaching to draw the child away with him.  This was bad, very bad.  He could feel the cold anger he had seen in his master’s eyes leaking through now as it grew into a burning, hissing rage.  Qui-Gon’s jaw tightened as he stared down at the small boy who now looked at him defiantly, refusing in any way to be ashamed of his answer, no matter how mad it made the giant before him.

“You . . . don’t know?” the Jedi asked carefully, anger held barely in check.

Aeris’s own chin trembled a bit as he stared at Qui-Gon’s large hands, clenching and unclenching.  Only when the Jedi master noticed his distress and made himself stop did the child continue.

“Yes, I don’t know.  My wem isn’t married.”  When Qui-Gon opened his mouth to reply, eyes once more dangerously bright, the child continued.  “And it’s none of your business why,” he stated, boldly making it clear that criticism of his wem would not be tolerated. 

Qui-Gon blinked, unable to meet the child’s fierce gaze.  Anakin shook his head slightly in confusion, still unable to place the boy’s father, no matter how the Force and his own memory teased and taunted, but he knew that having this knowledge was somehow far worse for his master.  “Your father didn’t marry your wem, and you don’t know who he is?” he asked carefully.  The boy nodded.  “Do you know where your wem is now?” 

The boy shook his head and Anakin found his own voice.  “We’re waiting for his wem now.  Something about the history exams running late?”  He looked to Aeris for confirmation, but a muttered, rather obscene curse from his master froze any further productive discussion.

“Master?!” Anakin gasped, more than a little worried at this point.  The raging anger had calmed some, but he could still sense it, like lava seething beneath a cooled crust of paper-thin obsidian behind his master’s shields.  It was not an anger dispersed in a single curse or a thousand of them, no matter how vulgar.

“I’ll be back Anakin.  Stay here with  . . . Aeris until his wem shows up,” Qui-Gon grated out the words as if each syllable was a shard of glass.  “I’d like to meet her and offer my apologies.”  Before either boy could get a word in edgewise, Master Jinn was out the door and thundering through the hall of mostly empty classrooms.  Far in the distance, a young toddler rather sensitive to the Living Force began to wail when the enraged master stormed past.

It was a full minute before anyone spoke, both staring at the door in shock. 

“Why is he mad?”

Anakin turned back to the child, trying to quiet his own worries without inciting the child’s.  “I’m not sure,” he began, being careful not to lie.  “I think he knows who your father is, and is angry because he didn’t marry your wem.”

“It’s none of his business.”  Aeris raised his chin, but it trembled again.  “My wem says I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You don’t.”  Anakin sat down next to the boy, wrapping an arm around him.  The child looked uneasy a moment, but when Ani didn’t resist the less than subtle probe of his intentions through the Force, the child relaxed against him.  “My mother didn’t marry my father; she doesn’t know who my father is.”

“My wem knows who my father is.  Wem is going to tell me when I’m older.”  The child leaned his head on the padawan’s arm.  “It’s none of his business.”

“I know,” Anakin sighed.  “But he thinks it is, and now is not a good time to convince him otherwise.  I hope he didn’t upset you.”

Aeris shrugged.  “I guess I upset him, so it’s sort of fair.”

Ani shook his head.  “It’s not fair and you didn’t do anything wrong.”  A faraway look came into his eyes; even in a sleazy cesspool like Mos Espa, a child could still be teased about not having two parents, even if the bully’s parentage was just as ambiguous.  “And your wem is right.”  He looked the child squarely in the eyes.  “You have nothing to be ashamed of.  You were just born.”

“I know,” the child whispered, huddling a bit closer, but after a moment he pulled away, staring into space.  Expectant.  The Force rose again.

Everything became clear.

“I’m sorry I’m late Aeris.  The exams are running quite late so I went to the crèche first, thinking you must have been brought there by n—”

Anakin gaped as the sentence and accompanying footsteps ground to a complete halt.  There was a man in the door, staring back at him, speechless and frozen in place.  He had been pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had a terrible sinus infection, leaving two spots of color where his fingers had been as the rest of the blood drained from his face.  Aeris stood expectantly as all thoughts of asking whether this was his parent or guardian fled the padawan’s mind.  As with Venda’s mother, they weren’t necessary.  It was too obvious. 

This was Aeris’s father.

This was why Qui-Gon Jinn had been so angry.

So very angry.

Aeris tugged on Anakin’s sleeve, concerned that proper questions were not being asked.  Justifiably, he wanted to leave before Master Jinn came back.  Anakin looked down at him.  He wanted him gone before his master came back too.

“This is—” Aeris began, only to be cut off.  Both boys turned to stare at his father, who now held out a hand, a stern expression on his face.

“Come along, Aeris.”  Obi-Wan Kenobi gave Anakin a wary nod.  “Padawan Skywalker knows who I am.”

 

* * * 

 

Unconscious of the fact that he was actually growling deep in his throat, Qui-Gon Jinn stormed through the halls of the Silvan Temple teaching center, intent on his self-imposed mission.  His dark cloak whirled behind him, like the wings of a deranged avenging angel.  _It was true._   Every sense was on alert; his eyes were open wide, his ears trained to the faintest sound, his nose keen for the scent of a long-forgotten cologne.  His Force-sense even scrabbled in his brain, searching for the crumbs and threads of a bond long dead and cold. 

He would find him.

_It was true.  All of it._

Every room he passed earned a fierce glare, every corridor a fresh curse.  From deep inside him, an ember of hurt almost gone cold with age had sparked, igniting a rage like he had never felt before.  Not when his first padawan had come home at dawn, drunk and reeking of sexual activity with a ‘Born to the Dark Side’ tattoo on her forearm, not when Anakin’s curiosity about water plumbing had flooded the entire initiates wing, not when he had been run through by a Sith.

Not when Xanatos had turned.

No, this was an altogether new and frighteningly powerful rage.  A rage so terrible he was dangerously close to joining his second padawan in his fate, though he was far too angry to realize it at the moment, much less care.

He was out for blood.

A small boy came around the corner, human this time, and promptly flattened himself against the wall in alarm when he saw the giant, red-faced man, hair flying wildly as he lumbered up the hall.  Jinn glanced at the boy, not seeing the cowering fear of a terrified child, nor the powerful currents of Dark Force pouring off his own being, poisoning the sacred halls of the temple like industrial runoff into a pristine pool.

He saw the child.  That child.  The child with an aura so bright, and a face so familiar it had felt like he had been blinded by a supernova.  And then stabbed through the heart.

_It was true!_

With another deep growl, he turned away and continued down the hall, pushing dark fury ahead of him and leaving cold fear in his wake.  He had heard all the rumors.  He had seen the sympathetic looks and cruel snickers cast in his direction.  He had felt the chill emptiness of his bed.  And he had denied it.

He had denied the hurtful words, had turned his back to them in public, and had cried out against them in private.  He had clasped to his heart treasured memories of companionable days, passionate nights and ever-changing eyes.  With his considerable will he had ignored the rustling, ever-present whispers, scratching at his brain with their insidious accusations.  _Promiscuous.  Irresponsible.  Deadbeat.  Whore._

He had tried, and for a while had succeeded in shutting out the wagging tongues, and in turning away the simpering looks of pity.  But he couldn’t ignore the loneliness.  His new padawan wasn’t the only one who felt cold and alone.

And eventually, the memory of those warm summer days was not enough to hold off the autumn winds of gossip and the winter storms of solitude.  And he began to take others to his bed.

_It was true._

His bed stayed cold.

Over time that dispiriting frost had seeped in from his bedsheets to freeze his heart.  He found no love.  He found no intimacy.  He found no trust.  He found none of these things, and could give none of them in return.  His frozen heart had been betrayed too many times before.

A sudden jar alerted him to the fact that he had reached the bottom of a flight of stairs he had no memory of descending.  His rage had allowed him to systematically and thoroughly search several levels of the building without actually paying mind to where he was going.  With an effort he banked his anger enough to notice his surroundings and attempt a decision as to where to look next. 

Passing through the large double doors at the foot of the stairs, he came into the main foyer of the building.  On his right-hand side stretched the Initiate Educational Wing, a place he would already loathe forever.  To his left was the corridor to the Padawan Educational Wing, a place likely to be hosting final exams.  In front of him loomed the massive double doors that marked the main entrance to the hall, pulled open to reveal a spectacular view of lawns and gardens, and beyond, the dorms and bungalows where the students and knights lived.  He turned left.

His heart began to resume its angry pounding, but he was not yet breathing at a noticeably high rate before he had gone four paces and the wing doors opened to allow two teachers through.  Master Jinn gave them a quick glance, and almost continued past them when their snatch of conversation caught his attention.

“Kenobi sure got out of there fast,” the small female humanoid, covered in mousy-brown hair, chuckled knowingly as she paused to adjust the large box of datapads she was carrying.

Her companion, a tall redhead, rolled her rather vibrant blue eyes.  “I know it.  The instant he found out I was late a tractor beam couldn’t have held him back.”  For a moment she paused to glance back at Qui-Gon, confusion registering on her features before she dismissed him from her mind.

“Well,” replied the brunette, as she struggled to hold up her burden.  “Not everyone is cut out to be a model parent.”  With a bang the box fell to the floor, spilling datapads across the corridor.

Desperately trying to control his breathing, Qui-Gon turned away, unable to look at her.  It pained him to look at her.   A searing pain a thousand times worse than the Sith’s blade.  _The mother_.

“I could help you carry that you know,” the redhead smirked as both women crouched down to clean up. 

He forced himself to look back as painful emotions assaulted him.  Anger, rage, regret, jealousy.  Empathy.  He couldn’t like her.  He could never like her, though she seemed pleasant and companionable.  _She’s the one he left me for._   But he couldn’t hate her.  _He left her too_. 

A flicker in the Force caught his attention and he looked back over the fields.  Verdant green grass, lush foliage, and pale golden fruit on slender branches, all absorbing the sun’s nurturing light.  Together they made an orchestra, singing the symphony of the Living Force.

“That’s not why he left,” the redhead said with a sigh.

But by now Qui-Gon was deaf to everything.  The words of the women.  The song of the Force.  The voice of reason.

_There._

He had seen it on the horizon, going toward the bungalows.  A flash of auburn-brown and the cream of clean tunics.  And lower, a glint of red so bright it seemed like a halo, or the glow of a sprite in the late afternoon sun.

_There._

With a snarl of rage renewed, he stormed out of the open doors, down the steps and across the garden, heedless of the tender grass shoots.  Both women looked up in concern.  The redhead frowned at him again as they loaded the last of the datapads back into the box.

“So Memeris, why did your almost-husband rush out of the exam like a bantha in heat?”

Mermeris smirked as the two lifted the box between them.  “You’d better not let him hear you call him that.  He wanted to leave early to take a nap.  He’s had a terrible headache all day.  Allergies or weird Force currents or something.”

“Oh?” her companion asked in concern, then offered a leer of her own.  “Are you going to massage his wittle temples?” 

Memeris flickered her eyelids in annoyance.  “No.”

“Pity,” her friend chuckled as they carried the box over the threshold and started down the stairs.  “Are you at least going to bring back dinner instead of making him cook for once?”

“Kareas, are you implying that I can’t co—”  Memeris dropped her side of the box with a bang, the datapads cascading over the stone steps, some making it as far as the gutter near the footpath.  “KRIFF!”

“Memeris, what are you doing?” Kareas stared at her tall friend in concern as the woman scanned the gardens, her hands half-covering her mouth, then whipped her head around to check the chronometer, red locks flying about her head. 

“I have to, . . . do you know who that . . . oh, of course you don’t, . . oh.”  Her eyes widened as if remembering something.  “Oh Force, no . . . I’VE GOT TO GO!”  With only that single coherent phrase, the now frantic woman ran down the steps and off into the distance as fast as her legs and the Force could carry her, leaving her friend to again collect up all the datapads, and this time alone no less.

Kareas blinked at her retreating form for several long moments before she dropped her side of the box with a sigh of resignation.  “Sometimes I really wonder what he sees in her.”  She sat down and began tossing the now quite battered pads into the box, then shook her head at the speck her friend had become in the distance.  “Not sparring my ass.”

 

* * *

 

“Weh- w-wait!”  Aeris sputtered as his short legs seemed to tangle yet again.  “I can’t g-go that fa-fast!”  With a hurried grunt that sounded vaguely apologetic, Obi-Wan reached down and picked up the child, and continued that much faster across the gardens.  Not accustomed to such haste, the boy squirmed until he was in a position he was sure he wouldn’t be dropped from.

“Is Padawan Skywalker going to get in trouble?”

“No,” came the quick answer as they crossed a low bridge over the stream.  They were almost to the bungalows. 

Aeris clung tighter as Obi-Wan ducked beneath a low-hanging branch and cut across a small rock garden.  “But his master told him to wait there with me until he got back.”

The small boy almost cried out as the knight stumbled but kept going.  “You saw his master?” he asked, holding him tighter as they hurried up the path toward the bungalow’s picket fence.  Knight Kenobi opened the gate with the Force as they reached it.

“Y-yes.  He was big.”  Aeris looked down, then closed his eyes tightly when the blur of gray flagstone and green grass below made him dizzy.  He didn’t know grown-ups could walk this fast.  “And mad.”  The knight walked even faster as the gate slammed behind them.  They were almost inside.  Almost.

But they were only halfway across the yard when he heard it.

“Obi-Wan.”  It was deep, and unsettlingly restrained.  Utterly cold.  If the man carrying him had not stopped dead, stiffening at that single, frigid word, Aeris would have thought he had imagined it. 

Slowly, Obi-Wan closed his eyes, let out a long breath and lowered Aeris to the ground to stand in front of him.  The boy tried to turn to peer around his robe, but the knight’s hands on his shoulders held him fast.  Unable to actually see the enraged master who had burst through the side hedge to catch up with them, he looked up at his guardian.  His elder stood quietly, his face a mask of emotionless serenity, his eyes still closed as he released his emotions to the Force.  Only his hands, clutching almost uncomfortably hard on the child’s shoulders betrayed his inner turmoil.

“We need to talk,” the man behind them hissed menacingly as he finally came to a stop behind them.  Aeris could hear his dark robe rustle as he crossed his arms over his chest and Obi-Wan’s hands tightened more in response.  The child winced and broke the knight from his paralysis.

“Go wait for me inside, Aeris.”  Obi-Wan gave the boy a push toward the door and began to move away toward his former master.  The child hesitated, words of protest on his lips, but all of his objections died with a single raised eyebrow turned his way.  “Now.”  Aeris nodded and hurried up the steps.  Only when the large front door was firmly closed behind the child did he finally turn to face Master Jinn’s wrath.

“It’s true then.”  Obi-Wan winced at the accusation and looked at the ground.  Qui-Gon growled as he came closer; his former apprentice stiffened under his piercing gaze.  “All of it’s true, isn’t it?” 

Qui-Gon’s eyes narrowed as the target of his rage filled his consciousness.  Obi-Wan said nothing.  At first glance he appeared to be meditating, his head bowed, his eyes closed, his stance alert, but not confrontational.  Was it serenity or insolence?  Jinn didn’t bother with a second look.

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”  Obi-Wan shuddered slightly and opened his mouth to speak.  Taking the gesture as a sign of guilt, Qui-Gon didn’t give him the chance to respond.

“How dare you, you stupid, selfish bastard.”  He didn’t yell.  He didn’t raise his voice, though the rage inside him still seethed relentlessly.  His voice, barely above a whisper, came out as a keen, deadly hiss that cut the young man much deeper than screaming ever could.  The master’s eyes narrowed as the knight before him paled and his trembling became more pronounced. 

“Did you really think I would never find out?  That no one would know what you did?”  Obi-Wan’s breath began to quicken.  Qui-Gon stepped closer; he was barely an arm’s length away now.  “I used to defend you, you know.”  He leaned down, staring into his former apprentice’s down-turned face.  “I used to say it was just rumors, that it was the lies of jealous tongues.  That even a cold, arrogant, self-serving little shit like you couldn’t be that cruel.”  The knight gasped as if he had been physically wounded.  “I used to tell myself that you would never betray me like that.”

Qui-Gon stood up straight and looked down on the bent, trembling head.  “But that’s not true, is it Obi-Wan?”  The young man let out a shuddering breath.  The master’s relentless gaze bore into his skull.  “You did betray me Obi-Wan, didn’t you?”

 The knight’s jaw fell open and his breath hitched, but no words passed his lips.

“And it wasn’t just me, was it?  You were too late this time Obi-Wan.  You were too late to hide him.”  He saw that small face in his mind’s eye and a pain deep inside wrenched through him before the fury consumed it.  “You betrayed that little boy.  That little boy who doesn’t know who his father is!”  Qui-Gon’s hands had formed tight fists at his sides, clenching and unclenching in his body’s desperate attempt to relieve the building pressure.  “You disgust me.”

“So what do you have to say for yourself, Obi-Wan?”  Apparently he had nothing to say.  The younger man had closed his mouth again.  “What do you have to say to me?”

He swallowed, but said nothing.

“What do you have to say to that little boy you heartless coward?”  Jinn grated out through clenched teeth.

He winced, but still said nothing. 

“What do you have to say to the woman you knocked up and abandoned you filthy bastard?”

Obi-Wan’s head shot up to meet his eyes.  “What?”

“I DIDN’T RAISE  YOU TO BE A WHORE!!!”

There was a sharp crack in the air and the young knight’s head whipped violently to one side.  Stunned, Qui-Gon stared at the skin around Obi-Wan’s eye, swelling and blushing to an angry red in the setting sun.  He felt a painful twinge and looked down to his own hand, astonished to see it similarly insulted.  He looked back to Obi-Wan, his world reeling as his mind tried to process what just happened.

_You hit him_.

Now it was the elder who shuddered in fear.  The rage had gone, had been spent in the assault committed and now he could feel the cold talons of Darkness clawing for his soul.

_You hit him in anger_.

Seconds ticked by but Obi-Wan still did not move a muscle.  Seemingly as stunned as the master, he stared toward the house.  Qui-Gon opened his mouth to apologize, but no sound came.

_You hit him in anger.  You promised you would never hit him in anger_.

Obi-Wan blinked slowly, as if testing his injured eye, now beginning to purple.  He took a deep breath, held it for several clicks, then released it slowly through his nose.  Qui-Gon’s hands began to tremble violently, suddenly unable to get enough air. 

_You promised_.

“If that was what I had done, I would have deserved that.”

“O-obi-”  He couldn’t get enough air.  Knight Kenobi turned to face him, his face emotionless, his bruised eye screaming accusations.  “Obi-Wan?”

“Get out.”

Qui-Gon took a half-step back, quaking like whill tree in a storm.  “Obi-Wan?”

_You hit him_.

“Get out of my house!”

Qui-Gon stumbled back toward the hedges, the harsh words hitting him like stones.  “Obi-Wan, I--, I’m--,”

“Get out!”  Obi-Wan’s eyes blazed, his temper barely checked.  Qui-Gon stumbled through the hedge, turned and ran.  He ran from the Darkness.  From the Darkness within and the Darkness left behind.  From the Darkness in those eyes.  Darkness he had put there.

When Obi-Wan was sure his former master had left, he let out a sigh, almost a sob, and lowered his head to his hands.  “Well that went well,” he murmured to himself as he prodded at his swollen eye. 

At least his headache was gone.

A small rustling noise was heard from the bushes along the side of the bungalow.  Obi-Wan sighed,  but didn’t raise his head. 

“I thought I told you to wait inside.”

The rustling grew louder, then came the sound of small feet approaching.  As the small boy approached, Obi-Wan lowered his hands and looked down at him.  The child stared up at him beseechingly, clutching at his robe, his bright blue eyes full of tears.

“He hit you.”

Obi-Wan nodded, then winced as the muscles in his neck and face advised against this.  “Yes,” he said finally.  “He did.”  He knelt down and the small boy launched himself into his arms, hugging him tightly.  He closed his eyes and held him, letting the child release his fears and anxiety to the Force from the shelter of his arms.  When the child finally let go, he wiped away the few stray tears from his cheeks.

“Feel better?”

The child nodded uncertainly.  “Are you alright?”

The knight stood, brushing dirt off his cloak as the sun finally slipped below the horizon.  Obi-Wan paused a moment, composing himself, then took the child’s hand in his own and walked him back to the bungalow. 

"I will be.” 

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

Anakin bit his lip as he glanced at the chronometer yet again.  He didn’t like this.  Not at all.  The Force had been giving him a bad feeling all day, well, he wasn’t sure at the time whether or not it had been bad then, but it was definitely bad now.  It was beyond bad. 

It sucked.

He resumed his pacing.  His master had still not returned, nor had he sent word through either the comm or their bond.  When he turned away from the clock near the door he could see the sun outside had now dropped below the horizon.  When he reached the windows and turned back the way he had come, the empty hallways before him told him the same story: the day was over, everyone had left, and his master should have been back by now.  Before now!  _At least my pacing is wearing the rug evenly so no one will notice the fibers that Jexin kid pulled out_ , he thought glumly as he turned once more to face the windows again. 

With a sigh of disgust, Anakin stopped and dropped to his knees on the reading rug.  He was a Jedi padawan, he should be able to handle his anxiety.  _And Qui-Gon’s a friggin’ Jedi Master and he can sure control his anger._   Anakin tried to open himself to the Force after that last sarcastic dig.  Surprisingly, the Force came to his call.  Tipping his head back, he opened himself to it, felt it flow through him.  Felt his own unsteady mind return to balance.  Felt the tension and anger his master had saturated the room with ebbing away, such that the tommorow’s students might never know there had been a disturbance at all. 

_Unless they examine the new cracks in the ceiling._  

Anakin rolled his eyes beneath his lids at himself, then opened them.  Although not as strongly and clearly as before, the Force still flowed to him, flowed through him, made him aware.  He could still feel the currents in the room, and now beyond it; his senses pushing further now, trying to locate his master without touching their bond.  Even he knew not to try that right now unless he absolutely had to. 

His master was angry.  He was furious.  He was . . . out of control now.  _Admit it, Anakin.  He’s completely out of control._   A cold knot of worry welled up in his stomach again.  He had never seen his master like this before.  He had no idea what to do.  He didn’t even know who he should go to, if anyone.  He couldn’t call his master, _obviously_ , he couldn’t call his master’s master, that was for sure, and he couldn’t even call Master Yoda, ( _his master’s master’s master_ ) since Yoda was on the Council and all.  And the only person on this farmball of a planet who might be able to help, his master’s last padawan, was probably running for his dear life. 

It really sucked.

Anakin glanced out the window toward the darkening fields.  When Master Gurven had given them the tour of the Silvan Temple campus, he had commented on the exciting advances and productivity of the Agri-Corp training center here.  _I suppose farming will be a reasonable alternative to knighthood after Master Qui-Gon turns to the Dark Side_.  Anakin tried to laugh at himself.  He couldn’t.

He reached out farther into the Force.  He couldn’t feel his master yet, but like a bloodhound sniffing after traces of scent, he could almost see the path his master had taken.  Animosity clung to the stone stairs, was ground into the fibers of the carpeted floors, weakly dimming like dying embers of bitterness.  Anger and rage left their tell-tale signatures in dead, trampled grass and broken off twigs.  Did the hot darkness still seethe in the distance, at the end of this trail?  Anakin took a deep breath, trying to release his fear and look.

Did he turn?  Did he hurt--

The sound of boots pounding on the stairs jolted Anakin from the light meditation he had fallen into, dropping him abruptly into the present.  He turned toward the door, startled as he felt a presence hurtling toward him, guided in its mad dash by the Force and little else.

“M-Master?”

“KENOBI!”

It was a woman.  A tall woman.  A tall woman with bright red hair and an insufficient oxygen supply.  Her chest heaved as she sputtered and scanned the room.  Anakin blinked.  It was a nice chest, he noted absently.

“Aeris?!” she tried again, barely taking in Anakin’s puzzled face.

Anakin thought frantically.  Was this the boy’s mother?  Maybe Obi-Wan wasn’t authorized to take the boy.  Maybe there was some sort of custody dispute.  Maybe Master Qui-Gon had worlds more reason to be angry at his former padawan than just for being a deadbeat. 

_Maybe I’m the one in trouble here since I let him take the kid . . ._

Anakin opened his mouth to speak but the woman had already spied the note on the board left by the art teacher.  _Aeris to crèche, —XZ_. 

“He took him, Ma’am,—” Anakin began to apologize.

“KRIFF!”  And without so much as a parting glance she whirled away and was gone again, red curls bouncing.  Anakin blinked after her, wincing as her feet pounded down the stairs this time.  Her chaotic wake through the ocean of the Force marked her trail across the gardens to the crèche.  For a moment Anakin considered going after her, but he didn’t even know her name. 

This really sucked.

Hello, my name is Anakin Skywalker, and I’m looking for the red-haired woman running around wildly with the heaving bosom.  Can you help me?

And it was getting to be ridiculous.

“Am _I_ the only Jedi here?” he asked the universe in general.  The universe did not care to respond.

_Get over it Skywalker.  Just make a Force-damned decision and DO something._   What was he supposed to do?

What was his duty here?

He hesitated a moment, but with that last question his mind was made up.  Cursing himself for a fool, he grabbed his cloak and left the classroom.

For ill or good, it was time to find his master.

 

* * *

 

Cold. 

He took a deep breath, the air searing his lungs.  Had he been a younger, less experienced man, he might have described the painful, panicked breaths as feeling akin to a sabre blade’s sear, but unfortunately he knew better.

A sabre through the chest hurt more.

Cold.

Another chill.  Another.

He needed the cold to cool his throat, the slow his breathing, to give his trembling hands some other excuse besides his emotions gone wild.

Cold.

_You hit him_.

Cold.

He needed more.  He needed another.  He needed to breathe, a deep full breath.  He needed to expand his burning, constricted lungs, to fill them, to fill them until the few remaining scars protested.

Cold.

He breathed. 

Falling back to the ground, he let the cold seep in through his back, let the cold slow his heart from it’s pounding, driven, rhythm to a gentler, if thready pulse.  He let the cold seep into his brain, driving away the circling thoughts, driving away the fire of raging anger and the ice grip of fear and stares up at the darkening sky.  He let this new, natural cold flow through him, numb him, chill him, still him. 

He could breathe again.

He lay in the mud and stared up at the darkening sky and shivered.  But he was cold and he was wet, and the frigid stars were beginning to shine their chill on him, and that was a much more acceptable reason to shiver.  A natural reason to quake.  Thermoregulation.  Beyond his control. 

He wasn’t expected to control something so instinctual and primitive, an internal safety mechanism found in the most ancient warm-blooded vermin. 

He wasn’t expected to control this, but he was expected to control himself.

_You didn’t control yourself_.

He continued to gasp for breath, the cold keeping him from panic, but also robbing his strength.  He was too exhausted to argue with himself at the moment.

It wasn’t as if he could argue against it anyway.

Still shaking, his fingers clawing into the mud below, he looked up at the stars.  He wanted to be home.  He wanted to feel normal.  But he was a Jedi; home was not a place but a feeling, inside him and in the Force.  He looked up at the stars, looking for the dim glow of Coruscant.  The Force had fled; today he was just a man and a far off place where his robes were hung and waiting would have to do.

A shadow fell across the stars and their light died in a sudden black gash.  He continued to gasp, wondering if this darkness had come to swallow him as well, and whether he should somehow regret this.

“Master?”  The darkness spoke.  He blinked at it.

“Master?  Are you alright?”  It was hesitant.  Another blink and the silhouette resolved itself. 

“Ani?”

His apprentice knelt down, his face a mask of concern over fear-filled eyes.   “Can you get up Master?” The young man looked him over for injuries and—

“I—” Anakin touched him, his hands burning.  Qui-Gon flinched.

“Master!  You’re like ice!”

For a moment he tried to cling stubbornly to the mud, tried to voice his need to stay there, to stay in the cold, but his stubborn padawan was having none of it. 

“You have to get up now Master.”  The insubstantial mud gave way as the boy hustled him up.  “Come on, we have to get you warmed up.”

“No.”  His voice quavered with his body.

“No, Master.  Yes.  You’re coming inside now so I can make sure you’re alright.”  He was on his feet, being led away like a mindless nerf.

“ . . have to . .  I have to find it.”  He looked about him at the mud, as if for some physical object.

“We’ll find it in the morning Master,” Anakin pushed his rather unsteady mentor up the riverbank, away from the water and mud and over to the bridge.  He looked his master over in the dim light.  The man was covered in mud, completely on his back and from the knees down on the front.  _He must have knelt at the riverbank before laying down in it._

“Gone . . lost  . . center . .”

“Yes, Master.”  Anakin glanced back at the muddy bank as they crossed the bridge.  Thankfully Jinn didn’t take it into his head to leap into the shallow stream below.  As far as he could tell the mud revealed only his master’s tracks and his own.  Had his master found Knight Kenobi then?  The knight’s quarters were further on; perhaps he hadn’t caught up with him then.  Maybe everything was alright and nothing had happened.

_And maybe Jabba the Hutt will free all the good little slaves next Boonta Eve._   He stared at the mud caking his master’s hair, soaking into his master’s clothes.  _What’s under there Skywalker?_ Anakin tried to quell his own rising panic.  It would not help matters here.  _Why are his hands shaking?  Why was he at the river?  Was he washing something away or covering something up—_

STOP!

“Come on Master.  We have to walk for awhile and then we’ll get you all cleaned up.”  _Maybe you should call security.  Might be washing away evidence._

Evidence of what?  If something . . . _bad_ had happened, wouldn’t there be screams or . . . people in authority running about?

Screams?  Authority?  You’re at a Jedi Temple.  And a satellite temple at that.  The whole grounds would have to be on fire before there was the uncivilized raising of voices here.

“Just stop it!” he whispered to himself fiercely.  Master Qui-Gon seemed too bewildered to notice.

Well, whatever had happened, it clearly hadn’t been good, and standing around here worrying about it in the dark was not going to make it better.  Nor was prodding his master from behind like a recalcitrant bantha.  Hoping he remembered the way to their rooms, Anakin walked around to face his master, then took up each muddy hand in his own.

He paused, looking down at them.  They were huge hands.  Powerful hands.  Made his own seem childlike even though his many outgrown gloves told him otherwise.  He remembered being very young, and promising himself that he would never, ever do a single wrong thing because his master’s hands were so much bigger than Watto’s.  Hands that big could really hurt, much worse than the surprisingly sturdy Toydarian’s could.  Had these hands hurt somebody?  Anakin looked into his master’s eyes, afraid of what he might see there.  The man looked lost.

“I’m here Master.”  Anakin squeezed those hands gently in support.  Qui-Gon winced and tried to pull away. 

Those hands had . . . done something.

With a last glance toward the knight’s bungalows, Anakin and his master reached the guest house.  The young padawan led his master into the foyer and to their suite without meeting anyone.  The sounds of dishes and quiet, peaceful conversation emanated from the dining hall.  Everyone else was eating, oblivious to his distress and his master’s mental state.  He tried to decide whether or not this was a good thing. 

Once in their rooms, Anakin helped his master strip and led him to the shower to wash off the mud.  The man was shaking like a leaf.  When he was certain the large man had begun to wash, Ani collected his muddy clothes and sabre and carried them to the larger sink in the kitchenette to clean off most of the mud before laundering them.

The sabre was caked in it.  The padawan suspected it was likely shorted out as well.  He hoped his master would regain enough calm to repair it before the next time he needed to use his weapon.  The boots were similarly covered.  Anakin was unsure they could even be saved, but he scraped off the worst of it with his fingers and rinsed the rest, hoping there was some sort of restorer for leather.  Still of an age when he was outgrowing boots almost faster than he could wear them out, his were still made of synthetics; more durable, lower maintenance and cheaper to replace.  Natural leather seemed to be an unnatural bother to him.  Anakin peered at his master’s underwear, then tossed it in the recycler as a lost cause.  He loved Qui-Gon, he honored and respected him _and was terrified of him at the moment_ , but he was not about to scrub mud stains from his master’s skivvies after what he had just been put through.  Finally, he rinsed out the sink and filled it with clear water for the tunics and pants.

He had always loved his master’s tunics.  They had seemed to be the clothes of a poor man the first time they had met, the fabric rough-looking and homemade.  Clothes that had seen many suns and many tireless days of toil.  Later he had found the latter to be true, but not the former.  His master’s tunics were not homemade, but they were hand-made and hardly roughly so.  The were meticulously tailored to the man’s enormous build, simple in their almost rustic design to allow for freedom of movement while still concealing the well-structured form.  Simple earth tones which could be found on any world, which could blend into the background, could hide in the shadows.  Clothes that could be those of a warrior, or a farmer.  Anonymous, but made to fit one person alone. 

Nor were the materials cheap, though one would be forgiven for thinking so.  Each tunic, each sash, every pair of pants were made from imported raw silk, rough to the eye, but smooth to the touch.  Light to allow movement, able to hold in warmth and release heat in variable weather, just slippery enough to make it difficult for the odd assassin to get ahold of, but not such that the wearer would fear sliding off one’s chair during long negotiations.  Wonderful material.  And durable.  Stain resistant.  If he could only get the mud out.  _And anything else out._

Anakin rubbed at the stains.  Later he would be grateful for the fabric’s durability, for its failure to fray under his zealous scrubbing.  But he had to know.  He had to see what lay under the stains. 

The shower spray turned off.  Anakin ran the rinse water.  Silt and sediment settled to the bottom of the basin.  The fabric smelled of rivers and rain, of nature and small fish as he drained the water.  There had been mud.  A lot of mud.

But there had been no blood.

The young man wrung out the clothes and hung them to dry, grateful to the Force.

He hoped this meant what he pretended it did.

 

* * *

 

Aeris started at the pounding sound in the hall.  Fearfully, he looked to the knight.  His elder seemed not to notice.  Aeris crept cautiously toward the door.

“Is he c-coming ba—”

“KENOBI!”

The child blinked up at the tall woman whose shining crown of hair so readily matched his own and put a finger to his lips.  “Shhh.”

“Not so loud Mer,” came a slightly muffled voice from behind the couch. 

Memeris winced apologetically.  “Sorry about that.  I forgot you had the Sith’s headache this morning.”

“Gone now.” 

“Right.”  Memeris frowned.  She’d heard that one before.  Feeling a familiar tug on the hem of her tunic, she looked down.

“Are you alright?”  With a grateful smile, she accepted the glass of water from the boy.  “You’re all wrinkly and glowy.” 

“Wrinkly?  Glowy?”  The child tugged at her tunics, setting her sash to rights, and making a face at the sweat stains.  Discreetly, she sniffed at herself.  Women may not sweat, but, as Aeris put it, she was definitely ‘glowy’.

“Of course I’m glowy.  I ran all over the Temple campus looking for you.  You weren’t in the crèche, you weren’t in class and you weren’t in the crèche the second time.  By the time I got here I had run quite a ways.”

“Why were you looking for us?”  Memeris frowned at the child.  He didn’t look quite right.  He wasn’t crying, but he seemed uncharacteristically nervous, almost fidgety.  He picked at the hem of his own, slightly rumpled tunic and as she put down her empty cup, he reached to take it to the kitchen with unusual haste.  “We came back here.”

“Um, someone was looking for Obi-Wan,” she began warily, not wanting to say too much in front of the boy.  She stepped closer to the couch.  “Obi-Wan, I saw—”

“I know,” the couch, or the invisible knight behind it, said.  He had the curtains drawn and Aeris had returned to his seat on the footstool, monitoring Kenobi’s water glass with care.  Obviously hearing of his former master had not helped his head.

“Are you alright, I mean, did it . . .” She looked to the boy, then tried again.  “Is there anything I can do?”

A deep sigh came from the upholstery.  “I will be fine.  Can we discuss this . . . later?” 

_Can we discuss this never?_ She knew that tone all too well.

“Maybe after dinner?”

“After dinner,” he conceded. 

_Dinner._   Memeris smiled a moment at her earlier indignation until she remembered why it had been interrupted.  “I know how to cook,” she mumbled to herself as she wandered into the kitchen.  “It’s not as if I never cook.  For someone besides myself.”  She opened the chiller and eyed the contents doubtfully.  _Damn, nothing instant._   She looked back into the sitting room.  Aeris still sat, playing nurse.

“Aeris, would you like to help me start dinner?”

“Dinner is already started,” the couch replied.

“I didn’t ask you,” she called back as she shut the chiller and spied the large pot on the range.  Opening the lid, she peered inside.  Something was . . . sitting in water.  Chopped cipolla and a tuber, in what looked like broth.  She looked around.  There were two kero roots on the counter and something from the herb box with dirt on its roots.  This was not helping.  Aeris climbed up on a stool beside the counter and peered into the pot.

“It’s getting warm.”

She looked at the boy, then whispered, embarrassed.  “What is it?”

“Pea soup.”

She looked back at the pot.  “Don’t you need peas for that?”  The child nodded.  Memeris went back to the chiller.  No peas.

She went to the cabinets.  No peas.

She looked in the chiller again, in the pantry, and even in the canisters on the counter, labeled ‘tea,’ ‘coffee’ and ‘flour,’ just in case they were mislabeled.  Not that she expected to find peas in there, but it would probably explain why her brew always tasted a little funny.

No peas.

She hated to ask, but this was ridiculous.  She wanted to be helpful, but . . .  She gave in.

“Obi-Wan, where are the peas?”

“They’re defrosting,” the couch called back. 

She looked toward the sitting room, worriedly and opened the photon oven.  It was fortunately turned off, but unfortunately empty.  Scanning the mostly empty counter one more time in the event that the elusive peas had been sitting in plain sight the whole time, she bit back a curse and crept into the sitting room.

“Obi-Wan,” she said quietly, not wanting to make more noise than she absolutely had to.  “They’re not in the Photo-Heat.”

“Yes, Mer.  I know.”

Repressing the urge to grind her teeth, Memeris marched up to the back of the couch.  Kenobi may have had a particularly bad day between his headache and his former master, but here she was trying to do something nice, and his little culinary mind-game was not helping matters. 

“Well then,” she asked as she leaned over the couch to face him.  “Where is . . . oh.”  The elusive bag of frozen peas stared back at her emotionlessly.

 “Right here,” it said.  “I’m defrosting them with my head.”

 "Obi-Wan!” she cried, moving toward the bag.  He waved her off and started to sit up, clutching the frozen vegetables to the side of his face.  “What happened?”  He lowered the bag gingerly to reveal a large purple bruise encompassing his eye and most of his temple. 

“I . . ran into someone.”

“He hit him,” Aeris peered around the side of the couch.  “It’s more purple now.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”  She reached out to probe the injury.  The wounded knight winced in response.

“I thought perhaps you would take it badly,” he said dryly before reapplying the peas and laying back against the couch.  Aeris climbed up beside him and cuddled close, offering comfort.

“Did you have the healers look at that?” she asked after a moment.

He sighed.  “Yes Mer.  They recommended I use a nerf steak, but I told them I was taking up vegetarianism.”  He snorted at himself, then clutched his nose and made a faint sound to indicate that snorting was a particularly bad thing to do at the moment.  “No.  I’ve had black eyes before.”

She gave him a look.  He tried to ignore it. 

“Master Gurm makes me go to the healers if I get big bruises” said a small voice from near his sternum.  Memeris intensified her look.

He sighed and rolled his uninjured eye.  “I’ll go this evening.”  He looked down at the child wrapped around his waist.  “I promise.  I would rather not . . run into certain persons again right now.”  The small arms tightened around him.  “Hey, hey,” he put down the peas.  “I’m alright, I’m not going anywhere.”

“He might be out there,” Aeris whispered into his tunic.

Wincing at the sore muscles in his neck and the throbbing in his eye, he picked up the child and carefully settled him on his lap.  “I promise, I will be fine, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“He hit you.”

“I know, but I’m a Jedi.  Many people hit me.”

“He hit you in the Temple.”

“He did.  He shouldn’t do that.”

“He shouldn’t hit you anywhere.”  The child sniffed.  Obi-Wan pulled out a worn handkerchief and the boy blew his nose dutifully.  “He’s not a very good Jedi.”

The knight sighed, and ruffled the boy’s hair.  “He’s a good Jedi, Aeris.  But he’s a man.  He wasn’t a good Jedi today.”

Aeris lifted his head and reached up to touch the bruise, trying to soothe it.  “I don’t agree with you.”

Obi-Wan tried not to flinch before catching his fingers.  “You’re allowed to disagree.”  Aeris reluctantly let go, then stared forlornly at the melting peas.

Memeris had watched the exchange in concern.  For his part, Aeris looked soothed, if still unsettled.  Kenobi looked like bantha poodoo.  Old bantha poodoo that had been stepped in.  But, as she watched, he was carefully opening his injured eye, so clearly the swelling had gone down.  Not that she could do anything about the color.  His students were going to have a field day with that one tomorrow.

“Are the peas ready to go in the soup?” she asked finally.

Obi-Wan turned to them in resignation.  “Yes, I think I’ve sucked up all of their healing qualities.  They are ready.”  She picked them up and took them back to the kitchen.

“I can do that you know.  I don’t walk on my eye.”

“Relax.”  There was a moment of silence as Memeris stared at the range.  Obi-Wan almost snorted into the quiet, then thought better of it.

“Obi-Wan?”

“Dump them all in the pot Mer.  Remember to take them out of the bag first.”  He shared a small smile with Aeris.  The sound of splashing and a half dozen peas hitting the floor greeted their ears.  The boy beside him giggled.

It was over.  It had happened.

_He knows now._   He looked at the child beside him, the beautiful, innocent child who had borne witness to such ugliness.  _I’m sorry Aeris._

The sound of less than skilled chopping reached his ears.  “How big are these supposed to be?”

With another shared smile, he got up.  “I’m coming, stop fussing.”  He reached the kitchen and took the knife from a relieved Memeris. 

“Alas, my knight, what would I ever do without you?”

Aeris followed him in and began setting out the placemats, catching his eye with a grin.

“You would make reservations.”

It was over.  He couldn’t go back to what he had had before.  He had known this, but hopes had lingered, despite his best efforts. 

It was over and it was time to finally get over it and get on with his life.  To stop living in the past and focus on the present.  _Be mindful of the present, Padawan_. 

_Get over it Kenobi_.

He felt a presence at his side, and looked down.

“I need help with the cups.”  He nodded at the boy and opened the cabinet out of the child’s reach.

He was still needed here.

_I’m not going anywhere, Sunbeam.  I’ll be here as long as you need me._

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

Anakin started awake at the sharp chirp.  It took several deep breaths and another chirp for him to calm his suddenly pounding heart and realize the noise was the door chime.  The signal bell in their quarters on Coruscant was programmed to sound like a small gong.  Some of their more austere brethren had actual gongs beside their doors, each tuned to a different note to be distinguishable from one’s neighbors.  A simple, yet efficient system.  _Except for poor Master Tono Sordo, who always opened the door, regardless of pitch_.  Here, in their guest quarters at the Silvan temple, they had not yet had the time nor funds to make their signals serene and harmonious, hence it sounded as if guests announced themselves by squeezing the life out of small, fluffy birds high on spice. 

Another tortuous chirp by the doomed bird got Anakin off the couch and to the door, stumbling and still half asleep.  He didn’t remember why he had fallen asleep on the couch instead of his cot until his hand was already opening the door.

“Hel—”  All of Anakin’s breath left him in a rush, and he sputtered a moment before regaining his composure.  “M-Master H-Helm.”  Anakin gulped as he stared up at the tall Prudaenian.  _The head of the Silvan Council is at the door at . . . a really early hour in the morning.  This is not good news_. 

The Councilor smiled faintly.  “Good morning, Padawan Skywalker.”  He wrinkled his eye-ridge at the youth, as if to confirm he had the name correct.

Anakin nodded and tried to look normal.  _Whatever normal is._ “Good morning Master Helm.  My master is still sleeping.”  Realizing he was risking being caught in a lie, the padawan probed his bond with Qui-Gon a bit harshly in panic.  Luckily, for once, his master was cooperating and continued his fitful slumber.  “I would be pleased to take a message for him, or I can wake him for you if you would prefer.”  _Please don’t make me wake him._   He quickly scanned the room for a datapad to write said message and when his eyes settled on the chronometer they nearly popped out of his head.  It was barely past dawn.  _This cannot be good_.

The long hair spines on Master Helm’s head rustled and Anakin looked back at him.  “You needn’t bother your master Padawan.  I was actually here to see you.”

“Me?”  Anakin paled.  _They’re going to take me away.  They’re going to arrest him and question him and take him away from me for whatever the Sith Hell he did last night and they’re just trying to be nice so that I won’t make a scene and he won’t have the chance to escape_.  Anakin tried to slow his racing heart.  “Why do you want to see me?”

Master Helm looked at him oddly.  Later the padawan would realize it was the Prudaenian look of concern.  The councilor tried to chuckle reassuringly, which came out as a rather sickly gargle.  “Oh, don’t worry young padawan, you’re not in any trouble.”

Anakin stared back at him.  _I’m not worried about me_. 

“I’m sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but your master put you on the waiting list for the Advanced Negotiation Workshop for junior padawans.  One of our students has been sent on mission so a seat has opened up if you want it.”

“Advanced Negotiation Workshop?”  Anakin blinked up at him.  Between the panic he was desperately trying to keep under control, and the Sith-early hour of the day he was expectedly slow on the uptake.

“Yes.  The workshop begins at mid-morning and there is some reading material.”  The master offered him a datapad, which Anakin realized he should probably accept after a long moment.  “It shouldn’t take you too long to prepare and your transport won’t be leaving until after supper hour so your fellow passengers will be appropriately sleepy.”  Master Helm smiled at him in as a jovial a manner as one could expect from the more liberal Jedi Councilors on Coruscant.  The joke, if there was one, was lost on Anakin.

“Well, Padawan Skywalker,” the Prudaenian continued after the youth failed to respond.  “Do you still wish to take this class?  To be perfectly honest it may be beneath your skill level, considering your own master leads the workshop at your temple, but if nothing else, I would appreciate your evaluation of our instructor.  I’m afraid diplomacy is not one of my own strengths and we do value student feedback, particularly from visiting students.”

Anakin glanced at the datapad.  He supposed he should have looked at it by now.  The course description seemed identical to that at his home temple, but scaled down to work for a smaller group.  Qui-Gon frequently taught this course and had seemed to have similar motivations to Master Helm for enrolling Anakin.  He wanted the feedback.

 _And I don’t want to have to take another class with my master._   It wasn’t that Master Jinn was a poor instructor by any means, but he had enough problems being Sith-damned Chosen One without being the teacher’s padawan too.  Anakin glanced back at Qui-Gon’s door.  He really didn’t want to leave his master alone, but he didn’t want spend the whole day stuck in here either.

 _Now I actually wish he was awake so I could see how bad he is._   His fears of the Silvan Council swooping in to arrest his master were fading in the face of Master Helm’s sheer reasonableness and his own inability to stay worried at the crack of dawn.  Additionally, the sound of agricultural equipment was equally reassuring.  Apparently everyone on Silva got up at this indecent hour.

Anakin looked back up at Master Helm to tell him he would have to check with his master, but yes, he was interested in the course, but the councilor was not looking at him.  He was staring past him, wearing that same concerned look.  Anakin turned back to face his master.  _Master Poodoo._

There he was, wearing his spare robe, tears from flying shrapnel still unmended, barefoot, bleary-eyed and with the worst case of bed hair his padawan had ever seen.  _Not to mention the fact that he’s probably naked under that robe since I threw out his underwear._  

Qui-Gon cleared his throat.  Both Anakin and Master Helm winced as the phlegm apparently put up a fight.

“You may attend the class Padawan.”

Anakin opened his mouth to protest but the councilor was a step ahead.

“Master Jinn, are you quite alright?”  The Prudaenian’s eye ridges were practically crawling back over the crown of his head. 

Qui-Gon nodded.  “A poor night’s sleep, though it was no reflection on your hospitality.”  Without warning, he sneezed into the sleeve of his robe, then looked slightly sheepish as if realizing there was no discreet way to hide the fact that there was now mucus on his robe short of holding his sleeve in front of his face until the councilor chose to leave.

The councilor nodded.  “Well, in that case, perhaps you would prefer your apprentice stay to see to your needs?”  Master Helm moved to take back the class materials.

“No,” Qui-Gon shook his head, his voice growing slightly less gravely.  “This is an excellent opportunity for Anakin, and I have to send some communications.”  His apprentice looked to him, as if to judge his mental state.  Carefully lowering his arm, he gave the boy a wan smile.  “I have to speak with Master Yoda about . . . recent events.”

Anakin felt his master’s shields lower the slightest bit as Qui-Gon hesitantly reached out along their bond.  He seemed uncharacteristically timid and apologetic.  _He damned well better be apologetic_. 

“I’ll be fine Ani.  Enjoy your class.”

There was no arguing with that statement.  Anything that ended with ‘enjoy your whatever’ meant all debate was closed.  _Regardless of whether or not I have anything left to_ say.  With a huff to release his emotions, the padawan turned back to Councilor Helm.  _At least he’s calling Master Yoda._  

“I’ll be happy to attend your class Master Helm.”  Anakin tried not to yawn.

The councilor smiled faintly.  “Good, we look forward to having you Padawan Skywalker.”  He looked over Qui-Gon once more.  “I do hope you will be feeling better by this evening’s transport.  In any case, I do urge you to please call on our healers before you leave to ensure you are not contagious.  I’m afraid your fellow Jedi on Coruscant would never forgive me if your fellow passengers were infected en route.”  With another mysterious smile at Master Jinn’s nod, Master Helm left, taking his unknown joke with him.

Anakin closed the door behind the councilor, then turned to face his master, only to find the insufferable man was already going back into the sleep chamber.  “Master?”

Qui-Gon returned several moments later, frowning sourly at his sleeve as he dabbed it with a tissue.  _One robe dirty, one robe soggy and the last one ripped and snotty.  No wonder he’s pissed._   “I’ll be fine while you’re in class Ani.”  He glanced at Anakin cautiously, then looked back down at his . . . mess.  “I apologize for my behavior yesterday.”

Anakin glared at him. 

“I apologize for frightening you and losing control.  I apologize for worrying you and making you have to come get me.”  He sighed and looked his apprentice in the eye.  “Thank you for taking care of me Anakin.” 

Anakin’s glare softened marginally.  “You’re welcome,” he mumbled, then wandered to the small chiller for some juice.  _Nothing like juice to start off the morning when it’s still the night before._   “So you’re going to call Master Yoda and talk about . . . yesterday?”

He glanced back to see his master stone-faced expression.  No emotion. 

“Master Yoda commed me.”

Anakin tried not to choke on his juice.  “Master Yoda commed you?”  They were on Silva for Force’s sake.  They were a good twelve to fourteen hours away from Coruscant by way of hyperspace.  At this distance, even the comms ran on a just noticeable delay.  _What the hell did you do last night, and how in the name of the Jedi and the Sith did Yoda find out about it?_

“What happened last night?”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and remained silent.  After several moments Anakin decided he wasn’t going to answer, but a few heartbeats later, his master proved him wrong.

“I lost my temper Ani.  I lost my temper, my control and my serenity.”  Anakin was fairly certain there were other things his master had lost but felt it best not to mention it.  Finally, Qui-Gon raised his eyes to his padawan.  “It will be alright Ani.”  Without another word, Qui-Gon went into the sleep chamber and closed the door. 

“I hope so Master.”   

 

* * *

 

Mid-morning, as usual, came sooner than expected.  _Or maybe time just seems to be moving faster because I can’t find the classroom._   Anakin tried to remember Master Gurven’s tour, but he had been paying more attention to the Initiate Wing where he had been assigned to work yesterday.  He had assumed that the Padawan Wing of the educational building would be organized similarly, but this proved not to be the case.  _It’s almost as if it’s designed to make you get lost._

Anakin was just starting to wonder if he would have to resort to asking for directions when a several padawans about his age walked by, talking amongst themselves.  One of them, a blond girl about his age with dark eyes that reminded him of Padme’s, noticed him as they passed, stopped and smiled.

“Hi, are you lost?”

Anakin blushed bright red.  “Um, no,” he stammered, flustered.  “I’m just, um, using the Force to lead me to my destination.” 

She looked at him in frank disbelief.  “Uh huh.”

He sighed, giving in.  “Yes, I’m lost.  I didn’t realize it was that obvious.”  She giggled at him, but in a friendly way.  It was kind of nice to be giggled at.  _No one ever dares to giggle at the Chosen One_.  “How could you tell?”

She smiled at him outright.  “It’s only obvious if you live here like I do.  I don’t know you and you’re looking at the numbers on the doors.  You haven’t been here long enough to know your way around, or we would all know you.”  She gestured to her friends.  “If you had been given directions you would be counting halls.  Instead you’re trying to make sense of the completely nonsensical numbering system for the classrooms.”  Her grin widened.  “Have you gone truly mad trying to make sense of them yet?”

Anakin laughed in spite of himself.  “Just about.  I was just told I had been assigned to a workshop this morning and I wasn’t awake enough then to think to ask for a map.”

“The Advanced Negotiation Workshop for junior padawans?”  Anakin nodded and the girl grabbed his hand and led him toward her friends.  “Come on, we’re all going there.  I’m Scout, by the way,” she added as an afterthought.

“I’m Ani,” he replied as he was dragged down a series of passages that seemed to make no logical sense whatsoever.  “I never would have found it by myself.  Thank you.”

“No problem.”  Scout let go of his hand as they reached the stairwell and began to climb.  “I don’t know why they put this class up in the cupola.  It’s makes it a pain to find and the gorgeous view of the gardens is distracting.”

A large Ithorian youth beside her gave a Sithly chuckle.  “It’s because they don’t want anyone to escape once the poor fools show up.  The view is just a lure.”

Scout snorted and punched the other padawan’s arm good-naturedly.  “If you know that’s their plot why are you coming with us instead of running the other way Goober?”

‘Goober,’ sighed.  “My master made me come.”  Anakin laughed along with the others.  Apparently everyone had been coerced in the same manner.  Goober’s eyes widened.  “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?  Ha, at least I _know_ when I’m going to my execution.”

Another padawan, this time a dark-haired Weequay, snorted.  “It’s a workshop for Force’s sake.  It can’t possibly be worse than the finals we just finished, and it’s a Negotiations workshop.  It’s not like there will be any weapons involved.  The biggest challenge here will be trying not fall asleep with our eyes actually closed.”  She looked about her, as if pitying the species that could not sleep with their eyes open.

The Ithorian laughed ruefully.  “That’s what you think,” he sang in an I-know-something-you-don’t-know voice.

Scout rolled her eyes.  “It’s just another class with Master Decora.  She’s not _that_ bad.”

Goober let loose another evil chuckle.  “Master Decora had a mission assignment.”

The Weequay stopped dead, blinking.  She was rather tall and broad and at the head of the group, thus everyone else stopped behind her.  “Master Decora has a mission?” she asked finally, turning to Goober.  The Ithorian nodded.  “And who pray tell did Master Helm get to replace her?”  Her leathery face wrinkled in a fiercesome manner.  Several of the other padawans in the group, Scout included, crossed their arms and glared at Goober.  The Ithorian preened a moment, then let out another laugh of the damned.

“He brought in . . . the Decimator!”  The other padawans groaned in anguish, leaving Anakin to wonder why this was a bad thing.

“That is so not fair!” whined a pale boy the height of a ten-year-old human.  “They just gave us finals yesterday for Force’s sake and now we have to deal with him today?”

“It’s a plot,” replied the Weequay.  “It’s designed to make our missions seem ‘fun’ and the Sith seem ‘friendly’.” 

Anakin looked at the group around him, wondering if he should be concerned.  Several of the students had activated their datapads and were skimming them rapidly, Scout included.  The small, pale boy mumbled something about how he would have read the material over a few more times instead of studying his astrophysics if he had known about ‘him’.  A young girl with green-streaked hair and very small ears looked moony-eyed until Goober poked her into continuing up the stairs.  A Quetran youth who looked suspiciously like Jexin, and not just because he was the same species, grumbled about how there should be a rule against being in the Decimator’s class two days in a row.

Wondering how this person could truly be any worse than being in his regular classes on Coruscant (Master Windu’s class particularly came to mind), Ani tugged on the back of Scout’s tunic to get her attention.  “Hey, Scout.”  It took a second tug to get her to lift her nose out of her datapad.

“Yeah?”

Ani hoped he wasn’t the butt of some joke on the visiting padawan.  “Why is this guy called ‘The Decimator’?”

Once more, the herd of students stopped dead. 

“I don’t know.”

“I’m not sure”

“I don’t know who started it.”

The Ithorian chuckled again in that bad B-holo tone that was really starting to grate.  “Because, that’s what he’ll do to your academic standings.  He will _decimate_ them!”

The Weequay rolled her eyes.  “Shut up Goober, let’s get moving.  He won’t like it if we’re late.” 

When the group was once again under way, Scout gave Goober a strange look.  “I always thought he was called that because everyone was afraid he would chop them into little pieces with his lightsabre.”

“Nah,” the Weequay snorted.  “He’ll just chop you in half.  It’s more efficient.”

Anakin paled for a moment.  While he certainly felt better than he had this morning, he was hardly up to sparring after last night’s little adventure.  “He uses his sabre in negotiation workshops?” 

Scout and her friends laughed a bit at that one as they finally reached the top of the staircase, but it was not the mocking sort of laughter.  “No, no.  Of course not.”  The pale boy gave her a look and she shrugged.  “Well, he might, but he usually teaches the sabre workshops, not the diplomacy ones, so that’s where he really built his scary reputation.  The instructors here have to wear a lot more hats then they do on Coruscant since we’re a much smaller temple.”

Anakin nodded, remembering his discussion the day before with Aeris about his wem.  “I’ve noticed.  The instructors seem to specialize more at the Main Temple, but when they have to find a sub, it’s anyone’s guess who will show up.”  He grimaced at his one frightful memory of when Healer Hystem had fallen ill and Master Yaddle had shown up to replace her for Humanoid Health and Development.

“Wait a minute,” the Weequay paused, but the hall was wider and a warning bell sounded, so the others simply walked around her.  “He _can’t_ be teaching this workshop.  He always teaches the senior padawan sabre clinic at mid-morning.”  She grinned smugly, her face cracking into a thousand pleased wrinkles.  “He’s too busy wiping up the floor with my brother to harass us,” she smirked at Goober.

Goober shifted his head from side to side and held up his forelimbs, the Ithorian equivalent of a shrug.  “Hey, I’m only as good as my source my friend.”

“And your source is?” the Weequay asked as she caught up to the now somewhat more hopeful group who were now climbing single file up the narrow stair into what was apparently the cupola.

“My master.”  This was greeted with some concerned frowns.

Scout leaned over to quietly explain.  “Goober’s master is, uh, _sparring_ with Master Helm, so he gets all the good gossip.”  She waggled her eyebrows and Anakin tried not to laugh.

“Ah, of course.” 

“SITH!” came the sputtered curse above them.  The first student of the group to reach the classroom at the top of the stairs hissed back at the rest of them.  “Goober’s right, we’re so dead.”  Most of the students around Ani moaned dramatically, except for the girl with the green-streaked hair, who sighed dreamily.

Goober glared down at her as he reached the top.  “Don’t look so happy Melexi.  This isn’t the training rooms.  You can’t ogle his butt if he’s sitting down.”  Melexi gave him a dirty look, then rushed up the stairs until she caught up to the dark-haired young man behind Anakin.  Goober finally cleared out of the way, and once the Weequay girl was through, the three were able to enter the classroom.  Anakin came in a few steps and looked around, taking in the room and trying to determine where to sit.  He had long used his Force talents in the classroom, sizing up classmates and deciding which ones would be most likely to harass him and who might be more civil.  It was a rather different experience when no one else in the room knew who he was. 

“Well Melexi, it looks like you got your wish,” a masculine voice purred, seemingly in Anakin’s ear.  He turned, startled to find that the dark haired young man was practically on top of him.  Moving out of his personal space, and cursing himself for blocking traffic like the Weequay had been doing the whole way there, he followed the other boy’s eyes across the room.  There he was.  The Decimator.  _Or at least there’s his famous butt._   Their instructor was bent over, rummaging through a box on the floor. 

Melexi practically drooled.  “Ah, this class is worth the pain, just for this.”  Goober rolled his bulging eyes as best he could while the dark-haired boy smiled slyly at Anakin before sidling up behind Melexi.  _He’s rather clingy._  

The youth winked at him from below his lashes before whispering loudly in the girl’s ear.  “It may be worth it to you, but you’ve never seen it in the buff.” 

Melexi made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeal and pushed him away.  “You did not!”  The boy nodded, grinning like a feline in a storage container of icthan fillets.  The girl opened her mouth to protest but the second warning bell sounded with a deep, brassy bong, and all the students began settling into chairs at small tables.  Anakin looked around, uncertain.  The datapad had said they would be working in teams.  He didn’t know anyone here, so he would likely be stuck in whatever group fell short.  There were five tables, each with four chairs, but only about twelve students.  The others seemed to be naturally falling into groups.  Slumping his shoulders, Anakin headed toward a still-empty table. 

“Ani, come sit.”  He looked up in surprise to see Scout waving him over enthusiastically.  “You can’t hide from the Decimator all by yourself.”  Anakin blinked at her effortless welcome, then headed over.  He didn’t notice the that rest of the table had been filled in by the Weequay and the dark-haired boy until he had sat down.  The Weequay was skimming her datapad again, reviewing the objectives, while the dark-haired boy smirked at Anakin, then turned to look across the room at Melexi, still grinning.  She shot him a look that promised death, then deliberately ignored him.  He chuckled just as the final bell rang. 

At the sound of the bell, all conversation stopped and the students faced the front expectantly.  Anakin followed suit, and noted the front of the classroom was dominated by a large slate board.  Their instructor, no longer bending over to the dismay of Melexi, was actually writing out a list on it in pale chalk.  So startled was Ani to see an instructor writing something by hand, much less using such simple technology as a chalkboard, that he didn’t notice the infamous Decimator had turned around to address the class until he heard the collective gasp from the students.

“Knight Kenobi, what happened?” 

Anakin never figured out who voiced the question everyone else was asking, though he felt like he was getting a good idea of the answer.  For his part, Obi-Wan stood before the class, looking at them as if they had asked him about a homework problem.  One eye was bloodshot; the surrounding tissue was purple, yellow, green and slightly swollen.  Staring at him, Anakin shuddered as the Force whispered to him, showing him images it had refused him before.

 _I didn’t raise  you to be a whore!_   Unfamiliar words in familiar voices.

Anakin shook himself back to awareness and looked toward the front, trying not to be noticed.  _No wonder I can’t stand the Unifying Force._

Obi-Wan was still standing in front of the class, debating how to answer such that further questions and speculation would be discouraged.  Finally, he looked over the class and smiled grimly. 

“Lesson one: in hand to hand combat, when someone moves to strike you, remember to duck.”  Several students winced, while others snickered.  One or two pretended to note this on their pads.  Anakin wondered if he had even been noticed in the crowd.

Obi-Wan cleared his throat.  “Well, now that we’ve covered combat training, let’s get down to negotiations.  I’m sure you’ve all read the preparatory materials.”  While the class moaned and rolled their eyes, the knight reached out his hand and a crystal-polymer tiara floated out from the box on the floor.  This interesting accessory raised a few eyebrows.  “There will be five factions in this exercise: the farming class, Meekus, Von and Elion,” he pointed to each student in turn, “the merchant class, Melexi, Ohokto and Jurdin, the nobility, Gob’li-ong, Sil and Edan,” the dark haired boy, who proved to be Edan, rolled his eyes, “and the Jedi negotiators,”

Anakin held his breath.  This was the part where everyone found out his name and was given a reason to not like him.

“Lohunas, Scout, and Ani.”

Scout smiled at him and Anakin let out a breath before he looked up at Obi-Wan.  Other than his eye, the knight seemed unperturbed by having the Chosen One in his workshop.  _And he has a lot more reasons to be perturbed, doesn’t he Ani?_

Goober raised his forelimb.  “Knight Kenobi, that’s only four factions.  What’s the fifth?” 

Knight Kenobi quirked his uninjured eyebrow.  “Ah yes, the fifth faction.”  With a mysterious smirk he sat down in large wooden chair off to one side of the board, then wiped some dust off the pink gemstones on the tiara.  “The fifth faction would be the terribly spoiled dictator prince.”  He put the tiara on his head.  “Me.  Prince Ben, Keeper of the . . . Shiny Oculus.” 

The class laughed as Knight Kenobi pouted a moment, then rose and walked over to what was apparently the prop box.  “What are you all sitting around for?” he asked as he began pulling out garden tools, small cloth bags, gaudy costume broaches and tiny toy lightsabres to represent the different groups.  “Get into your groups and review your strategy.  Negotiation begins in ten.  Everyone take an appropriate prop.”  After watching the students a moment to ensure they were following his directions, he pulled a wooden stick out of the box that looked as if it had been decorated by the initiates Ani had assisted the day before.  Holding it like a scepter, he walked to the board and began writing out the names of the students in each faction. 

At Anakin’s table, Lohunas, the Weequay, turned to the rest of the table.  “We’d better get started.  I’ll get our ‘sabres’.”  She stood, looming over them, then turned to Edan.  “Scram Nobility.  We Jedi have strategies to plan.”

Edan feigned offense, then rose and tossed his head in a regal manner.  “Very well, I will leave you to your work then.”  Deliberately he turned his back to her.  “Bye, Scout, Ani.”  He smiled at the girl, then looked Anakin up and down through his thick lashes.  Anakin blinked back at him, wide-eyed as Edan licked his lips.  “I look forward to . . . working with you.”  Edan noticed a stern glare from Knight Kenobi and hurried off to join Goober and Sil at the next table, but not without turning back to wink once more at Skywalker.

Anakin paled.  _He’s . . . flirting with me._ He looked at Scout, who was rolling her eyes at what apparently was normal behavior for the dark-haired youth.   Confused, he looked back to find Edan giving him the same sly smile he wore when he had been teasing Melexi.  Anakin quickly looked away, focusing on the sabers and directives Lohunas had brought back to the table. 

_Somehow I think it was easier being the Prophesied Child nobody liked._

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

*  *  *

 

Shaking his head, Anakin helped Jurdin collect the props.  Fortunately the Quetran proved to be much more polite and helpful than his younger cousin.  It had certainly been a workshop he wouldn’t forget anytime soon.  _After all Ani, it’s not everyday you get to overthrow the instructor._

In many ways, the class had gone much as Master Jinn had described his own experiences with it.  The class was given a description of a diplomatic crisis, often a composite of several real-life incidents.  The students were then randomly assigned to teams and ordered to negotiate for their faction.  They were encouraged not only to see their side’s point of view, but also that of the others.  Often, after a failed attempt to reach resolution, Master Qui-Gon would make the students change sides to better understand all facets of the situation.

But Anakin learned very quickly that he was _not_ in his master’s class anymore.  Because the Silvan workshops were frequently attended by non-resident students who did not have the luxury of staying until the class was successful, and just as often, the instructor might be called away on assignment before the week was out, the class moved much more quickly.  There was not sufficient time allotted for several failed attempts, much less for a group to switch sides and try again.  So they were scrambled.

It was unpredictable.  At seemingly random intervals, whole groups or sometimes just one member were mixed, switched or rearranged.  Sometimes it happened when they seemed to have reached an impasse; sometimes it happened when it finally looked like they were making progress.  Once it happened after Knight Kenobi got too close to the slate board and sneezed several times from the chalk dust.  Anakin didn’t think the fit had anything to do with it, but he really couldn’t tell for sure.

Yet despite its seeming randomness, he was convinced that it must have been planned from the outset.  By the end of the class, Anakin had been a part of every faction at least once and had worked with every student, including the rather flirtatious Edan, who kept . . . looking at him.   Fortunately during class, the young man had behaved in a respectful and professional manner while under the watchful eye of their decimating dictator prince.  At least until Anakin had had his brilliant idea.  _Great move there Skywalker._

_Weren’t you trying not to get noticed?_   It hadn’t been his fault.  _I blame it entirely on the bad influence of my upbringing by an unconventional master_.  He hadn’t meant to solve the negotiations.  Of course he hadn’t meant to blow up the Federation Droid Control ship either, but sometimes these things just happened to him.  He had been joking.  Merely joking.  But he had been assigned as a farmer, with Ohokto and Edan.  And Edan had thought it was a _fabulous_ idea.

“Well, if we can’t negotiate with the prince, _why don’t we overthrow him?_ ”  Five little words.  One small phrase.  So they had organized a rebellion by forming an alliance with the merchants and the nobles.  A clever coup.  They had even gotten advice from their ‘Jedi negotiators’ and started the process to join the Republic, free of their monarchy.  And now he was a Sith-damned hero to the fictional people of the planet Pseudo.  _Joy._   Anakin hoped Knight Kenobi wouldn’t hold a grudge over the broken tiara.  Jurdin and the other nobles had gotten a bit enthusiastic.

Sil and Scout came over with the small bags, chatting amicably.  It took a moment for Anakin to notice that Scout was also talking to him.

“Pardon?”

Scout giggled, her blond padawan spikes quivering.  “I asked if you were hungry Ani.  You human males usually are.  Do you want to come with us to lunch?”

“Lunch?”

Sil rolled her dark, almond eyes.  “Yes, lunch.  You know, that midday event where everyone eats?” 

Anakin’s eyebrows crawled toward his hairline.  “You want me to join you for lunch?”

“Why not?” Scout scoffed.  “Does your master want to come right back?”

“Um, . . .” Are _you crazy?_   His master was talking to Yoda.  The small master was not exactly known for his succinct manner.  This discussion could take all day.  “No, we aren’t leaving until this evening.  He didn’t give me any other assignments for today.”  _He owes me a little time off_.

“Lucky you,” mumbled Sil.  “I have to baby-sit the initiates tonight.” 

“Hey,” Jurdin retorted.  “I have to baby-sit Jexin tonight.  Count your blessings.”

“One, and two.”  Anakin jumped at the low voice in his ear.  Edan slid around him to put the broken pieces of tiara into the box.  _Does he do this to everybody?_   “Two less lovely people to compete against.”  The others rolled their eyes or made various gestures of disgust.  Edan smirked, then left to collect his datapad.  Anakin didn’t turn from the table as he counted the lightsabre toys several times, but he was certain he could feel the other boy’s eyes staring at him.  _Find some other fresh meat_.   

When Edan finally left, Scout turned back to the others.  “Well, if you two are busy tonight, let’s do something this afternoon.  Why don’t we talk about it over lunch?”  The others agreed.  “Good.” Scout turned to Ani.  “You’re welcome to join us you know, for, . . . whatever.”  Anakin nodded dumbly.  Sil and Jurdin began moving toward the door.  “Are you coming?”

Anakin looked around, noticing most of the class had left, leaving their instructor behind.  _You’ll never get another chance._   “Um, I’ll meet you there, I have a few more questions.”

Scout shrugged.  “No problem.  We’ll save you a seat.  You know how to get there?”

“I can always find my way to the food,” he replied, grinning. 

“Good, we’ll see you there.  Hurry up or they won’t have any whipped furl left.”  With a final nod to confirm it, Scout turned and hurried down the stairs, leaving Anakin alone.  _Almost alone_.

He looked around the classroom, now devoid of students, then stretched out his Force sense to check the stairs.  All of the students were indeed gone.  It was just him . . . and Obi-Wan.

_What are you going to say to him anyway?  ‘Does it hurt?’  ‘Nice shiner, that explains Qui-Gon’s hand?’  ‘Did he ever go berserker when you were his padawan?’_ Anakin very methodically disorganized, then reorganized the files on his datapad, gathering his courage.  As far as he could tell, the knight took no notice of him.  Obi-Wan had been cleaning the slate board while the students gathered the props for him.  Now he was sitting at the large desk, likely writing up his evaluations of the students for their masters and the council.  With a grimace, Anakin hoped Knight Kenobi wouldn’t have to actually sign his name to the report to Master Qui-Gon.

Anakin looked down at his datapad.  His files were back exactly as they had been.  _Force Skywalker, a three-toed womprat could have the files fixed by now._   He was out of excuses.  He would just have to try or run away.  _Do or do not, Skywalker, or you’ll hear Yoda in your head all day.  Just go up there and—_

“Did you need something Anakin?”

He glanced toward the desk; Knight Kenobi hadn’t looked up from his work.  All he had to do was mumble ‘no’ and he could be gone and down the steps and get himself lost looking for the dining hall and only have Edan to worry about.  Steeling himself, he walked up to the desk.

He stopped, and opened his mouth to speak.  The knight still didn’t look up.  He closed his mouth.  _Just say something!_

“Are, . . . are you alright Knight Kenobi?”  He winced as his voice cracked a bit.  He had hoped he had left the worst of that behind him with the onset of puberty, but it still came out under stress.

The knight sighed silently in resignation, laid down his stylus, then looked up.  Apparently he relished this conversation no more than Anakin did, but like his young successor, met the challenge head on.  Anakin tried not to stare at his eye.  Standing this close, he could almost see the traces of his master’s Force signature on the wound beneath the smoother touch of a healer.  Delicate blood vessels were repairing themselves, while even smaller cells were breaking down the clotted blood.  Bright sparks of spent anger glinted along pain receptors as Obi-Wan moved his head, though his expression did not betray the complaints of aching flesh and bone.  The apprentice looked away, trying to ignore the fact that the other students couldn’t see this.  Couldn’t have seen it if they believed a story about a failure to block in the training salle.

Obi-Wan blinked, but did not look away.  “I will be Anakin.  No bones were broken and the bruising will clear in a few days.  I’m only banned from sparring because the healers don’t want to risk further injury until it is healed.”  Anakin nodded, but didn’t speak.  He heard the knight returning to his work _.  That’s it then.  He’s alright.  There’s nothing else to say, is there?_

“How is your master?”

“My m-master?”  He hadn’t expected this.  He had expected the knight to ignore it.  He had expected him to send a nasty message back.  _You had expected him to treat you like the Chosen Scum, and he didn’t.  He certainly has reason enough to_.

“Master Qui-Gon  . . . was very . . . unsettled last night.  He—”  _Oh Force Anakin, just spit it out_.  “I found him trying to meditate, I think.  I took him home and put him to bed.”  He flushed, realizing he was probably saying more than he should.  “He told me Master Yoda called him this morning and that he would be talking to him most of the day.  I didn’t call Yoda or report him or anything!” he added desperately.

The knight quirked an eyebrow, almost involuntarily, and Anakin watched, fascinated by the pain impulses this triggered, as well as the endorphin-like grains of Force healing warring along the bridge of Obi-wan’s nose and his forehead.  “I know you didn’t call him Anakin.  I did.”  When Anakin opened his mouth to protest, Kenobi raised a hand to silence him.  “I didn’t call Yoda to file charges against your master Anakin.  I called him because Master Jinn needed someone to talk to and Master Yoda is aware of . . . the situation.”

_Aware of the situation?_ Anakin looked at the knight in confusion.  Was Yoda aware of the outburst?  Or did he know about the boy?  Obi-Wan was checking through the desk drawers, making sure he had left nothing behind or out of place.  Just like with his class, it seemed he had done his duty, notified Master Yoda of _the situation_ and was putting the incident behind him.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Obi-Wan stood up and Anakin winced as he realized he had voiced his thoughts, and quite loudly. 

“You are supposed to be a padawan.”  The apprentice in question shot him a that-wasn’t-what-I-was-asking look and the knight hastened to explain.  “This mess isn’t your fault, Ani, and I’m sorry you had to be part of it.  Just be who you are.  Force willing, this will blow over and,” Obi-Wan paused, as if unsure whether or not life could return to normal and it was just an empty promise.  “And your training will resume when your master regains his serenity.”  The knight shook the chalk dust out of his robe and put it on, setting the wrinkles to rights, then gathered up his datapads and the prop box.  “Was there anything else you wanted to ask?”

Anakin looked at the floor.  Obi-Wan nodded and began to walk away.

“Why didn’t you tell them who I was?”

The knight stopped and quirked his eyebrow again, although to a lesser degree.  He was getting tired and Anakin could see the pain receptors were winning out against the healer’s efforts.  “Why didn’t I tell them who you were?”  He blinked.  “I seem to remember mentioning your name.”

Anakin wondered if the knight were patronizing him.  “You called me ‘Ani’.  You didn’t tell them I was Anakin, or Padawan Skywalker, or Master Jinn’s Apprentice or the _Chosen One_.  You just called me ‘Ani.’  Why?”

Obi-Wan put down his box with an almost audible sigh.  “Would you rather I introduced you as Padawan Skywalker, Apprentice to the Mighty Jinn and the Chosen One of the Force and all that?”

Anakin blinked.  “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he paused in confusion.  _Isn’t it obvious?_   “Because they won’t like me.”

Obi-Wan stared at him coolly.  “Why else?”  Apparently that wasn’t enough of an answer.

 “Because . . that’s all they think I am,” Anakin answered at last.

The knight nodded.  Ani hoped that was a good thing.  “And why is that all they think you are?”

The young padawan took a deep breath.  _No wonder they call him The Decimator.  He’s almost as bad as Yoda_.  “Because . .. because that’s my reputation.”

“So I told them your name, but not your reputation.”  Obi-Wan looked at the boy before him, almost sadly.  Anakin looked up at his eyes, for once that morning seeing his face, not the Force-tinged injury splashed across it.  “Perhaps I know what it’s like to have one’s character and worth decided by one’s reputation.”  The boy looked away, unaccustomed to seeing grown Jedi betraying such emotion in a glance.  “I decided I would leave that up to you for once.”

“Thank you,” Anakin whispered, still looking at the floor. 

Obi-Wan patted his shoulder, then picked up his box.  “You’re welcome.”  The knight turned to leave and the boy followed him out of the room and down the narrow stairs.

Anakin thought the conversation had ended, but as the knight negotiated the last of the cupola stairs, he paused.  “So was the workshop up to Coruscant standards?”  Courteous and professional, as if he hadn’t just discussed their shared master who had beaten him the night before.

“I think so,” Anakin replied, trying to match the business-like tone.  “You certainly covered the same aspects of negotiation they address at home, but in a much shorter time frame.  The scrambling was different though.  It was effective at forcing us to see all angles of the problem, but sometimes it was difficult to work in the long-term if we weren’t sure how long we were going to stay in those roles.”

The knight nodded, seriously considering his input.  “Yes, that was a concern when we designed the workshop.  We have a longer version of it without the scrambling which is designed for students whose masters are on teaching rotation, but we like to put them through this one first so they get some experience without having to be grounded to the Temple for a week when they are on mission rotation.  We’re considering doing something similar with some of our other workshops, so if you have any more feedback, feel free to comm Master Helm about it.” 

Anakin noted that the knight had not offered to discuss it himself.  “Master Helm?”

Obi-Wan stopped abruptly at the boy’s tone, and mentally backtracked through the conversation.  “Ah.  Yes Anakin, you should contact Master Helm.  He’s the one heading the curriculum review committee and I will be going on mission rotation in another week or so, and will not be teaching the courses anyway.”  He stared intently at Anakin’s face until the padawan looked at him.  “If you want to talk to me about . . . other things, you know my comm code from the syllabus.”  The knight bit his lip, obviously uncomfortable with the subject.  “I would rather you . . . I hope it won’t be necessary but, . . . you can comm me Anakin, but I’m often on mission and,” he sighed.  “There are some things I can’t talk about Ani.  Not to Qui-Gon and not to you.  Please let me know if Yoda can’t straighten things up with your master and I will do what I can, but . . . but my hands are rather tied on the matter.”

They both began walking again, silently this time, and Anakin mulled the conversation over in his mind.  As they reached the lifts and boarded, Anakin wondered how he was going to get to the dining hall and supposed getting to the ground floor was probably a step in the right direction.

“How do I get to the dining hall?” he asked as the lift began its descent.

The knight smiled wanly.  “It’s between the knight’s bungalows and the initiates dorms.  I’ll point it out to you when we get outside.”  The same well-mannered, all-business tone.  Anakin glanced over at him as the lift doors opened; in profile his injury was hidden.  He didn’t look all that different from the day they had met.  His padawan braid was gone of course, his robes were a darker shade of brown and the knight’s tail had been abandoned in favor of simple cut just slightly longer than the apprentice regulation style.  He seemed quieter, less bouncy and energetic, and somehow even more serious.  He also seemed remarkably shorter.  But for all that, if not for the faintest trace of worry lines, an observer might easily mistake Kenobi for a just-knighted padawan.

“You know, speaking of reputations, you really don’t seem to live up to yours.”  The knight half-turned and glanced at him sharply as Anakin stepped from the lift and the young man hastened to explain.  “You’re not so bad.  Why do they call you ‘the Decimator’ anyway?”

The knight turned a remarkably bright shade of pink.  “Um, well, . . to be honest Ani, that . . . nickname has nothing to do with my . . teaching style.”  When the boy merely looked intrigued, Obi-Wan released his embarrassment to the Force and continued, his blush slowly fading.  “When I first arrived on Silva, many of the buildings you see had not yet been built.  There weren’t very many of us here, and many of the facilities were running on shall we say lower forms of technology.”  They continued their walk, or rather Knight Kenobi did and Anakin hurried to follow.  “The only kitchen in the temple was in the dining hall,” the knight pointed to the large, slate-roofed building in across the gardens.  “All of the dishes were washed by hand until they brought in the dishwashing machines.”  Anakin watched in fascination as the blush crept back up Obi-Wan’s face, turning his already multi-hued face into a riot of color.

“You know I didn’t exactly come to Silva under the best of circumstances, and at the time I was less than my usual graceful self.”  This was said with a wry tone, and as they walked across a flat bridge, Anakin would have sworn he heard the knight mumble what sounded like ‘Oafy-wan’ under his breath as he rolled his eyes.

“So what do the dishes have to do with it?” Anakin asked cautiously.

With a sigh of resignation, the knight answered.  “The head cook gave me the name because I broke so many plates.  He still calls me that on occasion and the students on kitchen duty must have overheard him and adapted it to their situation.”

Anakin tried not to laugh and failed miserably.

“I’m glad to see you find it amusing Padawan,” Obi-Wan retorted in his driest instructor voice.  Anakin managed to quiet his giggling.  “I trust you can keep it to yourself?”

“On, ha,” Anakin cleared his throat.  “On my honor Sir Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan stopped and gave him another wry look before deciding to grant him the benefit of the doubt.  “This path here will take you to the dining hall.  Avoid the steamed vilous root if you can and don’t let Edan upset you.  The others don’t take him seriously and neither does he.” 

“Yes Sir,” Anakin nodded.  “Thank you for, . . for your help.” 

“You are welcome Anakin.”  For a moment he looked as if he wanted to say more, and Ani found himself wishing he had gotten a chance to know this man better.  “Take care of yourself.  May the Force be with you, and with  your master.”  Before the apprentice could get another word out, he had turned and continued on alone, down his own path.

“May the Force be with you Sir Kenobi.”

The knight’s head shook slightly and as Anakin turned to go, a dry voice drifted back to him through the trees.  “Why couldn’t I get a nickname like ‘Sir’?”

 

* * *

 

“Finished you are?”

Qui-Gon stopped his pacing and sneezed abruptly.  “No,” he replied as he wiped his nose.  “I’m nod finished.”

The ancient sighed as Jinn turned to face the comm unit.  “Missed a snot you have.”  The comment earned him a wrathful glare from behind an angry tissue swipe.

“You’re nod helping.”

Yoda straightened his ears and narrowed his eyes.  “Help you need Qui-Gon Jinn, but expect me to do what you do?”

“I,” the master blew his nose, then paused, uncertain.  “I want you to help me find my serenity.  I want to know what happened!  I want to know what you and the Council plan to do about this!”

“Demand much you do, but only relevant first request is.  Find your serenity only you can do, but help you by listening I can.”

“Relevant?”  Qui-Gon stared at the little green troll.  He was starting to wish Mace had called to interrogate him about his conduct instead.  True, he probably would have been sent to a cell to cool off and brood about his actions before Windu grilled him, but at least that particular master didn’t delight in talking in riddles.  “Why isn’t it relevant?”

The holo before him flickered and if Jinn didn’t know better, he would have sworn the ancient master had rolled his eyes.  “Want to know what happened you do.  Voyeur I am not.”  Yoda narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to the screen.  In one of less revered serenity, his expression might have been taken as one of infuriation.  “Know well you do how babies are made.”

Jinn took a deep breath, then assumed the visage of a stern Jedi master; Yoda remained unimpressed.  “I am well aware, Master Yoda, of how babies are made.  When I asked what happened, I wanted to know how the Council could not be aware of this nor take the appropriate actions in such a situation.” 

The small blue face in the holo seemed to pinch even tighter for a moment, before the head bowed to chew thoughtfully at its virtual gimer stick.  “Why think you that know about this the Council does not?”

Qui-Gon turned and glared at the projection of his master’s master for a full three seconds.  With the time delay, Yoda waited approximately 3.2 seconds for his response.  “I would think the Council would at least have the decency to inform me of this disgraceful event.”

The ancient Jedi leaned forward in his chair, staring at Qui-Gon as if he were a mere initiate on the cusp of some great discovery.  “And inform you of this, the Council should have why?”

“Why?” Qui-Gon sputtered and the transmission crackled as somewhere in space, debris strayed into the signal path.  “He was my padawan, that’s why!  He was my padawan and he, . . . he did . . . _this_!  It’s an outrage!  He, . . it’s an insult to his sacred vows to the order and dishonors not only _my_ teachings but yours!”  He took a deep breath.  This conversation was not helping to restore his serenity.  “He was my padawan.  If the Council knew about this, why wasn’t I told, and why was he not duly punished?”

“Your padawan he was,” Yoda conceded at last.  Qui-Gon couldn’t tell if the hesitation was deliberate or simply the time delay.

Qui-Gon clung to his patience by his fingernails.  “Yes, he was my padawan.  As his former master, I don’t appreciate discovering his sexual transgressions by meeting them in classrooms.  If the Council was aware of this, an inquiry should have been made.  At the very least I would have been called for that.”

The great master’s ears sagged, as if Qui-Gon was still that small initiate before him, and he had missed the lesson entirely.  “Aware of this matter the Council is,” he said, shifting slightly on his chair as old bones began to complain.  “Dealt with this matter has been.  No need was seen to inquire about Obi-Wan’s character.”

“No need?  Master, forgive my disagreement here,” Jinn grated out in a tone that was in no way apologetic.  “But if you, me and the whole Jedi order,” Qui-Gon waved his hands to include the invisible Jedi order out of holo range, “has worked, sweat, bled and sacrificed to train one whom they believe to be an honorable man, and it is discovered he is . . . this . . parasite, how could they NOT call his character into question?”  _How could you fail to tell me?_

Yoda exhaled deeply, looking intently at the ornate patterns in his meditation mat.  When Qui-Gon was a boy, he and his friends were convinced Yoda could read the secrets of the universe in that mat.  In the present, Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn believed he just used mat contemplation to stall for time.

“No reason there was to inquire about Obi-Wan’s character.”  The ancient master’s tone indicated his words were carefully chosen, and should be examined thoroughly for one to truly grasp their meaning.  Yoda looked directly at the holorecorder.  His life-size image seemed to stare into Qui-Gon’s soul two-tenths of a second later.  “Questions the Council did ask when born Aeris was.  Some answered, some refused.  Identify the father Aeris’s mother would not.”

Qui-Gon opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.  He opened it a second time.  Yoda leaned forward in his chair, looking hopeful.  Qui-Gon closed his mouth again.

“The Council asked and the mother refused.” 

“Yes, refused the mother did to identify the father.”

Qui-Gon opened his mouth again and Yoda leaned that much closer to the holorecorder. 

“The Council did not insist on an answer?”

Yoda sagged back.  “Insist the Council can not.  Confidential medical history is unless relevant to mission.”

“Confidential!”  Qui-Gon glared at the Holo Yoda and felt a twinge of satisfaction when it flinched at his outburst, albeit two-tenths of a second late.  “That child looks just like him!  There have been rumors flying about his damn escapades for years.  Anyone who gets the slightest glance of the boy will know.  Confidential my Jedi ass!”

“Tsk, tsk,” Yoda picked at a splinter on his gimer stick, waiting for the other master to calm down a bit.  “Talk like this you do to a member of the Jedi Council.  Taught you better manners I did.”

Qui-Gon crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the tan carpet beneath his feet.  For reasons unknown, Jedi were fond of the myriad shades of brown.  He was starting to see the appeal of patterned meditation mats.  Staring at a plain rug made one look like an imbecile.  He took a deep breath.

“And I taught him better than that Master,” he whispered after several moments of silence.  “Why wasn’t I told?  Why was I left to learn of it in this manner?”

He looked up to the holo of his first teacher, his first mentor, his oldest friend.  Yoda looked back at him sadly.  His eyes seemed to apologize.  _Solve this riddle for you I cannot Qui-Gon Jinn.  Discover these mysteries on your own you must._   He shook his head at the memory of hearing such words from the small, green master throughout his youth and well into his adulthood.  Always the same gentle, yet expectant tone.  The ancient moved to speak and he could almost feel the words forming as he waited the two-tenths of a second for them to reach across space to his ears.

“Told you I did Qui-Gon Jinn, confidential such matters are.  Question you the Council would if knew you to be involved they did.”

Qui-Gon turned away to stare out the window.  It really was a lovely world here.  So different from Coruscant.  Verdant.  The air was thick with the Living Force.  He would have loved to live in a place like this once.  To build a life in a place like this.  To make a home in a place like this.  To raise a fam—

“But he isn’t my padawan anymore, so I wasn’t involved, was I?”

Yoda leaned forward in his chair, his brow furrowed with uncharacteristic worry.  “Your padawan he was, but tell you more I cannot.”

Qui-Gon nodded vaguely.

“See the boy you did?”

Again, Qui-Gon nodded.

“Well was he?  Healthy?  Happy?  Secure feels he?”

Jinn sighed.  “He seemed very healthy and well adjusted, Master.”

“Hrm,” Yoda grunted, as if there were some vague hope for his recalcitrant student yet.  “Saw Obi-Wan you did.  Also healthy, happy was he?”

_He was almost certainly healthier before you saw him_.  “He hardly looked pleased to see me, Master.”  He could feel Yoda’s eyes burning across the galaxy and through the holoprojector to bore two tiny holes in his back.  That answer was not good enough.  “He seemed . . anxious.  He was . . running from me.”  He looked down at his still swollen hand.  _Small wonder why._   “He seemed . . . careworn,” he said in surprise, not having noticed it until his training forced him to sift through his chaotic memories of the night before.  _Careworn.  Alone_. 

“Saw him with the boy you did.”  Yoda leaned forward again.  “Know him the boy did?  Trust him did he?”

Qui-Gon turned back, but looked to the rug, not meeting the hologram’s eyes.  “The boy knew him Master.”  He forced himself to remember the scattered images.  A word here, a gesture there.  He was a diplomat, trained to read the signs in the behavior of others.  The boy had known Obi-Wan well enough to not question his judgment.

_But he didn’t know who his father was, did he?_

He sighed.  “I don’t know what to think, Master.”

Yoda looked him over, green ears sagging, and an almost pitying expression on his face.  Qui-Gon knew he had missed the lesson here.  There was something he wasn’t understanding.  He almost felt that all would become clear if he just asked the right question.  Or the right person.

“Not for me to tell you what to think.” 

You could ask him.  You could talk to him.

He doesn’t want to ever see you again.

He sneezed.

“To the healers you should go Qui-Gon Jinn.”  Rustling could be heard behind Yoda and the small master looked beyond the scope of the recorder.  He turned back to Qui-Gon.  “Go now I must.  Council meeting convening is.  Speak more we can when return to Coruscant you do.  Alright you will be?”

The tall master was rummaging through the complimentary tissue box from the refresher.  It was empty.  Rolling his eyes at himself, he wiped his nose on his by now rather crusty sleeve.  Yoda had seen him do worse.

“I, . . I will be, Master.  I will see you tomorrow evening.”

“See that you do,” Yoda ordered sharply before his face and tone softened somewhat.  “Have tea we will.”  The small master looked him over once more, as if wondering whether there was anything else he could do.  “Have healers look over your hand you will.”  Qui-Gon stiffened.  “If make no more trouble you do, face charges you will not.”

“Yes, Master.” 

“See counselor you will.  No arguments there will be.”

“Yes, Master.”  No arguments.

“Then leave of you I will take now.  Take care of self you will.  Catch your cold I will not.”

“Yes, Master.”

“May the Force be with you.”  The holo-transmission cut out.  Qui-Gon sneezed.

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

 

Anakin leaned over the table and ladled another serving of snap beans and kossoli onto his dish.  Several of his tablemates looked on in amusement.

Ohokto raised an eyebrow.  “They don’t have vegetables at your home temple Ani?”

Swallowing a half-chewed bean, Ani stared back sheepishly.  “Of course we do.”  He looked down, jabbing at a koss-stem with his fork.  “We just don’t get them so . . they aren’t as good on Coruscant.” 

Scout laughed and smacked Ohokto lightly on the arm.  “Be nice.”  She turned to Ani.  “I know what you mean.  I was amazed when I first came here.  My master and I had been posted on a space mining station for three months before we moved, and I hadn’t thought anything green could taste that good.”

Smirking at Melexi, Edan opened his mouth to make some lewd comment, but Lohunas, who was sitting next to him and had been about to take a sip of bantha milk, mimed pouring the milk in his lap.  Edan subsided and the rest of the table looked relieved. Scout remained oblivious. 

“So you’re from the Coruscant Temple?” 

He smiled at her gratefully.  “Yes, the planet that never sleeps, never turns off the lights, never stops driving and never, ever stops producing garbage.”  Scout giggled back, her padawan braid bouncing.  “It’s true.  They have the most amazing waste disposal systems on Coruscant.”

“If you think that’s amazing,” Jurdin scoffed.  “You should see the waste disposal system here.”  Anakin looked at him questioningly.  “You’re eating it.”

The Quetran laughed heartily at his disgusted expression and tried several times to apologise,  “I’m, haha, I’m sorry Ani.  I only,” he again succumbed to chortling.  Finally he regained control, wiping his eyes, while his friends fought the urge to join in.  “I only meant,” he sighed.  “I only meant that we have an excellent composting program here, which is why our vegetables taste so good.”

Ani poked warily at an uneaten bean.  “Of course.” 

The entire table cracked up.  Lohunas looked particularly gleeful.  “In that case Ani, Padawan of the planet of no sleeping, darkness, standstills or tidiness, let us officially welcome you to Silva, planet of families, scandals, and vegetables.  A place where nothing is ever safe from becoming fertilizer.” 

Feeling rather playful, an experience he ironically hadn’t had much since he had been freed, Anakin grinned, then looked around, a mock-fearful expression on his face.  “Nothing?”

Lohunas snorted.  “Nope.  Nothing.”

“You mean I could be . . . plant chow?!” Ani asked incredulously.

The snickers around the table grew, but Lohunas was not about to be outdone.  The Weequay leaned down, staring him directly into his face.  “You’re just another nitrogen source, Braid Boy.”

Laughter escaping from between his clenched lips like steam from a boiler, Anakin grabbed his table knife and held it in the First Defense Sabre Hand Position.  He turned to glare at his tablemates.  “You’ll never take me alive!”

The table erupted, its mirth spilling over into the next, leaving the adjacent set of younger padawans wondering why they were laughing.  Jurdin slapped Ani on the back with his two left hands.  “Don’t worry Ani, haha, we only feed the scandalous Jedi to the bean field.”

Anakin put down his weapon, still snickering.  “Scandalous Jedi?”

“Yes, Ani,” Edan turned to him, grinning slyly as he dug a spoon into his baked custard.  “All of the scandalous Jedi get sent to Silva.”  Deliberately, the dark-haired youth turned back to his dessert and brought a hearty bite to his lips, inverting the spoonful onto his tongue.  Making a show of licking his spoon clean, he cut his eyes to Anakin.  “Didn’t you know that?”

Anakin looked down at his own custard, grateful he had chosen a pink, berry flavor which he found in no way suggestive.  Obi-Wan had told him not to let Edan bother him, that the other students didn’t take him seriously.  _So why are you taking this seriously Ani?  He’s just . . flirting.  Like the girls do.  The ones who don’t know you._   This was getting ridiculous.  He took a deep breath, then looked up squarely at Edan.

“Well then, that certainly explains why you’re here, Edan.”

“Oooooooohhhh!”  Jurdin lifted his custard and spoon with his primary arms and pounded on the table with the secondary pair beneath them in a syncopated rhythm.  “Rejected!”  The others broke out with catcalls and cheers, slapping Ani on the back and smacking Edan good-naturedly.  Feigning disinterest, Edan continued to partake of his own dessert in a somewhat less provocative manner.

“Scandal brings its own benefits,” he said at last, an eyebrow raised.

“Sure does,” Melexi sighed, her hopeful eyes glued to the door.

Even Edan rolled his eyes at that one.  “You know Melexi, all you’re ever going to get is to look.  That’s all anyone gets.”

Anakin swallowed his own custard and looked toward the door in confusion.  “All anyone gets of what?”  Edan turned to face him, a near Sithly grin on his face and Anakin began to wish he were still shoveling his food in because it seemed to keep him from saying inanely stupid things.

“Good morning closs, I trust you’ve all done the reading?”

“Good try.  Now, try to block me again.  Good try.  Again.  Good try.  Again.  Good try.”

Anakin blinked at the eerily accurate, if exaggerated accents.

“Melexi, do you find something interesting about my ah-ss?”

The young girl in question shot up from her seat and shot Lohunas a deathly glare.  “HE NEVER SAID THAT!”  The younger padawans at the adjacent table who had still been suffering fits of giggles became immediately more interested in their own custards.

“Maybe not,” the Weequay chuckled.  “But have you noticed that whenever you get hormonal he looks at you funny and then checks to see if he’s leaned against the slate board?”

“Sorry to burst your bubble dear,” Sil patted her arm and after a moment, Melexi sat back down, slightly more calm.  “He’s just oblivious.”

“He’s a diplomat.  He can’t be _that_ oblivious.”  Anakin and Scout winced as Melexi stabbed her custard with more violence one could expect to attribute to a spoon.

“You know Melexi,” Edan attempted another sleazy lick at his dessert.  “He could just like men.”  The temperature dropped as the green-haired girl glared at him.  Sil moved to restrain the now loaded utensil.

“No Edan,” Scout chewed thoughtfully on her lip in what Anakin found to be an oddly fascinating manner.  “I think he really is just oblivious.”

“Melexi, why is everybody staring ott my ah-ss?”

Melexi lasted a full two seconds before dropping her spoon onto her tray, helplessly surrendering to laughter.  The rest of the table, none able to hold back, joined in.  Even Anakin, having seen the knight so recently, could not help but match the imitation up to his mental image.  It was wholly inconsistent with his own knowledge of the man’s reputation.  But it was so damned funny.

“Oh, oh my.”  Scout wiped her eyes with a tissue and offered the pack around the table.  Goober took several, having laughed so hard he now had to blow his nasal orifice.  “That was too funny.”  She took a sip of water, and sighed, finally in control of her own reactions.  “So, does anyone still have any energy left after that or should we all go to our respective homes and take a nap instead?”

Sil rolled her eyes.  “Please don’t say ‘nap.’  I don’t need any reminders, thanks.”

Jurdin stretched out all four arms and then began gathering the remains of his meal onto his tray.  “I’m all for fun before Sil and I are sacrificed to the younglings.  Where can we all get together?”

As a group, the padawans turned to Goober.  Anakin looked him over, trying to figure out why.  Goober continued to wipe at invisible mucus for several moments, ignoring their scrutiny.  His fellow students stared harder.  The tissue wavered.

“Oh alright, I’ll go ask,” he sputtered in disgust and stalked off toward the tables frequented by knights and masters.  Anakin looked to Scout in confusion.

“Oh don’t worry about him, Ani,” she reassured him as she began cleaning up her own debris.  “His master has a nice den we like to meet in and she’s usually nice about letting us use it.  Her last padawan was a Wookie, so it’s bigger than she and Goober need for themselves.”

“They didn’t make her move to smaller quarters when her padawan was knighted?”  With the housing crunch on Coruscant, they certainly might have to there, regardless of who Goober’s master was ‘sparring’ with.

Scout stood and shrugged.  “Where would she move to, the grain silo?”  She laughed, but more at the image in her head than at him.  “They’re still building interiors in half the residence buildings here Ani.  Why move if your space is finally liveable?  It would only create more work than it would save.”

Anakin nodded as he rose and collected his dishes.  “Makes sense.” 

By the time he and the other padawans regrouped at the table, Goober had returned.  The Ithorian was drooping in a dejected manner, and fiddling with the strap that held his datapads together. 

“So,” Meekus, the small boy who had been quiet for most of the meal, mostly because he ate about four times as much as his tablemates, clambered up into his chair.  “What’s the word?  What did your master say?”

Goober sighed.  “She said ‘yes’.”  The table cheered. 

“BUT!”

“There’s always a ‘but,’” Scout giggled.

“Thank the For—”  Edan’s quip was interrupted by a smack from the Weequay.  Lohunas glowered and the table returned to silence.  Goober nodded his thanks to her before continuing.

“But, she said we all have to weedle our own snacks from the dining hall since we cleaned out the chiller last week and we can’t play loud music because she and Master Helm are going to be calculating grades.”

Ohokto blinked in disbelief.  “You mean she’s going to be there with . . with her little ‘Helmy Whelmy?’”

“Maybe we should invite them to the party.  It might improve our grades.”

“Ewwwwwwww!”

“No way!”

“Edan, that’s disgusting!”

Anakin tried to decide whether he should ask why this was revolting or to just try to get rid of the idea of calling his own Temple’s head ‘Yoda Woda’.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, after helping the kitchen staff clean up from lunch and chop more produce, the young padawans found themselves gathered together in Goober’s den with half a case of fizz, iced tea, dried fruit, puffed kernels and a large canister of after dinner mints.  Apparently this passed for party food amongst the teenaged set on Silva.

Not knowing his way around the kitchen, Ani took a moment to comm his master while the others got the cups and bowls together.  In the hours since he had gone to class, his master, while still visibly upset, had at least seemed to pull himself together.  A fresh dermal injection mark on his neck revealed he had made it to the healers and he informed his apprentice that their laundry had been returned.  _At least now we both have clean underwear for tomorrow._

The dutiful padawan in him kicked in, so he reported to his master that the class had gone well.  He didn’t mention the instructor of course, and thankfully Qui-Gon didn’t ask.  Instead, he sneezed.

“Master, are you still . . sick?”

Qui-Gon wiped his nose and sighed.  “The healers assure me it’s a local bug and the numerous, nasty shots they gave me will have it cleared up in no time.”  He made to sneeze again, but the exhalation never came.  “Of course healers have an interesting definition of ‘no time.’”

“Do you want me to come back to help you?”  A loud clang, the sound of girlish shrieks and Edan’s chuckle emanated from the kitchen.  Anakin glanced to the door, unsure what answer he was hoping for.

“No, I’m still somewhat contagious for the time being.”  His master raised an eyebrow.  “I trust you’ve found some activity to fill your free time?”

He blushed slightly and silently cursed himself for it.  _It’s not like you’re thirteen anymore Skywalker!_   “The other padawans from class invited me to a party Master.  It will be over by dinner.”  Another shriek, this time clearly Melexi’s, came hurtling out of the kitchen followed by a Force-shoved Edan.

“AND STAY OUT!”  The dark-haired boy smirked at Ani, then draped himself on the couch and picked up a datapad of a current magazine.

“I could come back if you want me to, Master.”  Edan made a show of looking up an article about pleasing one’s partner and Ani began to wonder if catching his master’s cold would be the better option.  _Doesn’t Qui-Gon know what teenagers do when they are left alone?_

Apparently the elder master did, because through his exhaustion he looked terribly amused.  “No Ani, as I said, I will still be contagious for the next few hours and the healers want me to rest in isolation until then.  I should be safe to be around by dinner.  The healers also said the standard booster inoculation you had last term should have protected you this morning.  If you don’t have symptoms by now, you should be fine.”  Anakin glanced at Edan who seemed inordinately interested in the magazine and paled.  _One excuse down._  

“Ani?”

He turned back to the comm.  “Yes, Master?”

“I trust you.  Remember the Code, don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with and go floss.  We’ll talk about it at dinner.”

“Floss?”  The comm line cut out.

“So what are we playing?” Goober asked as he pulled out a large box from under the couch and Elion, Scout and Melexi came out of the kitchen, bearing the refreshments.  “Sabacc?  Trivia Tournament?”  The others seemed less than enthused as they arranged the food and napkins.  Goober sighed in defeat.  “Kiss and Tell?”

“Kiss and Tell.”

“Kiss and Tell.”

“I second, um fourth that.”

Melexi glanced at the Ithorian in amusement.  “You had to ask?” 

Goober rolled his eyes then stomped off.  “I’ll go get the mod.”

“Oh you know you enjoy it.”  Melexi noted Edan still sitting on the couch, then deliberately curled herself up on a large overstuffed chair as far from him as possible.

Anakin stared at the food in adolescent horror.  _Kiss and Tell?!  No wonder they brought breath mints!_   “Um, where’s the ‘fresher?” he winced as his voice rose to an uncharacteristic squeak. 

Scout looked up at him oddly.  “Down the hall, first door on the right.”  Anakin nodded and hurried down the hall.

“The communal floss is in the blue box in the drawer,” Edan called after him.  Scarlet-faced, Anakin closed the door on the group and leaned back against it.

 _For Force’s sake Skywalker, get a grip.  They aren’t going to bite._ Lurching off the door, he turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his still flushed face.  “You’re sixteen years old.  You should be able to get through a simple game of ‘Kiss and Tell’ without embarrassing yourself.”  _Of course you’ve never played ‘Kiss and Tell’.  No one would ever want to kiss the Chosen Scum, would they Skywalker?_

He nearly jumped out of his skin as someone pounded on the other side of the door.

Maybe they will bite after all.

“Ani, are you pissing in there or flossing?”  A chorus of protests, followed by a deep, reprimanding voice greeted Elion’s question.  He cleared his throat as Anakin turned off the sink.  “I’m sorry, let me rephrase that.  Are you evacuating your bladder or can I come in?”  His voice became muffled as he apparently turned away from the door.  “Was that better?”  The deep voice murmured something that sounded somewhat affirmative. 

Anakin hurriedly dried his hands on one of the half dozen small guest towels on the enormous towel rack, then opened the door.  Elion slipped in and closed the door before he had a chance to slip back out.  _Just as well Skywalker, you’d rather hide in here as long as possible anyway._

“Sorry about that Ani,” Elion chuckled good-naturedly.  “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”  The other boy shrugged and pulled out the floss container when Anakin gave him a doubtful glance.  “My master and I had a long term mission working undercover in a somewhat, shall we say, seedier part of the galaxy.  Sometimes the lingo just slips out.”

“Oh.”  With a deep sigh, Anakin settled onto the lid of the commode and nodded.  “That’s okay then.”

Elion nodded, cut off a segment, then gestured with the box to Ani.  “Floss?”

Anakin looked at the carton as one might look at a venomous wraith toad.  “Um, . . thanks.”  He tried to stop the nervous twitching in his hand as reached for the dreaded dental equipment.  Elion didn’t seem to notice and happily began cleaning between his molars.  Anakin half-heartedly clipped off his own length.

Maybe you can flush yourself down the commode and no one will notice.

“Ut jun’rully hups ef you pot d’floz en yur mouf.”

“What?”  Anakin gave the other boy a nerf in the headlights look.

Elion disengaged from his floss, threw it in the recycler, then rinsed out his mouth.  He took a moment to inspect his pearly whites, then turned back to Anakin, who seemed to be staring at him in a state of horrified fascination.  “I said, you have to put it in your mouth for it to do any good.”

“Oh.”  Anakin nodded and looked down at the floss in his lap.  “I should use it then, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes, you should,” Elion laughed.  “Unless of course you want Melexi to tell everyone what’s stuck between your molars.”  Anakin shot him another shocked look.  Elion laughed again.  “Don’t worry, her tongue isn’t quite that long.  She just checks everyone’s teeth with the Force before she’ll kiss them.”

“Oh.”  Anakin sighed and hesitantly began to wind the floss around his fingers.

With a grimace, Elion sat down next to Ani on the rim of the tub.  “What’s wrong Ani?”

“N-nothing.”  Anakin began cleaning around his eyetooth and tried to smile reassuringly.  “Um jut uh sow fosser.”

Elion looked unconvinced.  “And I’m a bantha’s uncle.  What’s the matter?  Is Edan still bothering you?”

“Nuh, um, yuh.”  In defeat, Anakin put down his floss.  “Yes, kind of . .  but,”

“But what?  You have a girlfriend who won’t let you play Kiss and Tell?”

Ani couldn’t stop the rueful laugh.  “No, I don’t have a girlfriend.” 

“So what’s the problem?  You have a boyfriend who won’t let you play?”

“NO, I mean, um . . no.”

Elion snorted.  “It’s not a bad thing if you have one.”

“I know that,” Anakin stopped, not sure what to say.  “But I don’t . . I don’t have any kind of ‘friend’ and . .”  He trailed off, hanging his head.

“Your master won’t let you?” the other boy asked, confused.

“No!”  Anakin bit back a sigh.  “I’m just . . the other padawans don’t like me and, . . and I’ve never done this before.” 

Elion looked at him quizzically.  “As far as I know, we like you just fine.”  He moved toward Ani, before sitting back and putting his hands on his knees, skirting the line between friendly support and youthful machismo.  “I’m pretty sure Scout likes you just fine.”  Anakin gave him a look and Elion shrugged.  “Well I know Edan likes you plenty, but didn’t think telling you that would help.”

“Um, no.  It didn’t.”  _Maybe you should talk to that psych healer Master Bilaba recommended._   “But I didn’t mean the padawans here don’t like me.  I meant the ones at home . . on Coruscant.”

Elion shrugged, then stood up and smoothed the wrinkles from his clothes.  “You’re not on Coruscant.”  The other boy looked at his reflection in the mirror, adjusting his hair and a head-fin.  “Whatever you decide to do, don’t wait too long in here.”

“Right.”

The other boy nodded and left, leaving Anakin alone with his floss.  _Come on Skywalker, make a decision._

 _You can stay in here until you figure out how to flush yourself down the commode._   The sound of fairly current jizz-wail music began to seep in the door faintly. 

 _Or you can just clean your teeth and try to bluff your way through it._   He picked up the floss, staring at it, the looked to the door in trepidation.  _They don’t know who you are.  He didn’t tell them you were the Chosen Scum._

 _Live in the moment Skywalker._  

He quickly began to floss.

 

* * *

 

When Anakin emerged from the refresher and hurried back to the den, he found the music had been turned low, the food was untouched, and his former classmates were sitting at attention.  In the middle of the room stood Master Helm, apparently giving them some sort of lecture.  Anakin was trying to quietly sneak in when the tall Prudaenian suddenly turned toward him, his eye ridges bristling down over his forehead.

“Ah, there you are.”

Anakin gulped.  “I’m sorry Sir,” he began, unsure what exactly he was apologizing for, but choosing to err on the side of caution.

Master Helm stood up quite straight and looked at Anakin quizzically as he slunk to his seat.  “You needn’t apologize Padawan.  You merely blessed us with an opportunity to meditate on patience.”  He gave Ohokto a pointed look as he said this, and the other boy blushed slightly.  “Some of your peers are a bit . . anxious to begin.”

"See?” Elion poked Ohokto in the ribs.  “I told you he didn’t fall in.”  Ohokto rolled his eyes.

Edan turned to face Ani, leaning seductively over the arm of the couch.  “Don’t worry,” he drawled.  “You’re worth waiting for.”  Anakin tried not to flinch as the dark-haired boy looked him over yet again and smirked.  “But why wait?”

Master Helm clapped his hands sharply and the padawans, Edan included, returned to attention.  Unsure of exactly what was going on, Ani followed suit.  The councilor turned his glare on Edan for a moment before addressing the group.

“Now that I have all of your attention,” the councilor began.  “We will start with a review of the rules of the game so we can be absolutely certain that _everyone present_ knows the rules.”  Anakin winced as he realized he was likely the reason that ‘everyone present’ needed to review the rules.

A moment later he almost fell out of his chair as he realized the councilor seemed to be in charge of the game.  _We’re playing ‘Kiss and Tell’ in front of the Head of the Silvan Council?!_  

Trying not to panic, he looked wildly to his companions.  They seemed calm, as if hiding boredom.  _Settle down Skywalker, you must have just missed something.  Maybe they decided to play something else.  Like Trivia Quiz or something and Master Helm is going to ask the questions . . because he likes quizzing teenagers or something._

That seemed like a reasonable explanation.  His anxiety subsided.

Only to return a moment later as that theory was shot down.

“Here you are Melexi.”  Master Helm picked a datapad out of the game box Goober had pulled out from under the couch and passed it to her.  “Read the first rule then pass it on.”

Melexi cleared her throat as she scrolled through the data.  “Rule one,” she recited in a clear voice, completely devoid of humor or insincerity.  “No player shall be coerced or pressured into kissing by another player or the group.  Any player may refuse to embrace without censure and without explanation.”  She passed the pad to her left as Anakin tried to lift his jaw off the floor.

Goober made a puffing noise that seemed to clear his air passages before he spoke, then, using both of his mouths for the stereo effect, read his portion.  “Rule two: no player shall knowingly cause another harm, neither emotionally nor physically.  It is the responsibility of the players to know which species they can and cannot safely embrace.”  With another wuffle he passed the pad to Lohunas. 

Anakin began to sweat.  He had no idea what species he could and could not kiss.  _It’s not like you ever had to ask before_.

They probably won’t want to kiss you anyway.

The Weequay held up the pad in one hand with a dramatic air.  “Rule three: confessions made in the game stay in the game and shall not be fodder for idle gossip.  The only instance in which confessions may leave the game is if the well-being of a player or an outside party may be in danger from maintaining silence.” 

Anakin began to wonder if the padawans on Coruscant took their games this seriously.

Elion took the pad next.  “Rule four,” he began, reddening slightly.  “Physical contact shall be limited to socially acceptable erogenous zones.  While this varies from species to species, in most humanoids this consists of the face, arms and back.”  Elion coughed slightly, trying not to laugh.  “It is not acceptable in the course of the game to, ha, um, grope socially unacceptable zones,  ha-um, which includes, but is not um limited to—”  He took a deep breath.  “not limited to, breasts, buttocks, gill slits, groins and gonads.”

“Did everyone get that?”  Master Helm looked about him expectantly.  “No ‘B’s’ and no ‘G’s’.”

“Yes, Master Helm,” the padawans chorused, Anakin a beat late.  _They’re actually serious?!_

“Good.”  His eye-ridges smoothed and he gestured for Elion to continue. 

Head-fins now a rosy pink, he took a deep breath and finished.  “It is the responsibility of the player to notify other players of socially unacceptable zones which they are likely unaware of.”  Looking relieved, Elion passed the pad on to Meekus, sitting on the floor in front of the couch.

“Rule five.”  The pale boy made a gulping noise as he sucked in a deep breath.  “No player will break the rules of the game to cause or prevent a specific pairing.  The game shall be played as an honest game of chance.  Manipulation of the game materials in order to alter chance, including by Force use, is strictly forbidden.”  Meekus turned to hand the pad up to Ohokto behind him.

Ohokto leaned back against the couch and scratched behind his ear as he tried to find his place on the pad.  “Rule six . . um, ah, here it is.  Rule six: players that are not of legal age may not partake of, nor be under the influence of chemical substances while playing the game.  Caffeine is an acceptable substance, provided it is a low-grade, legal stimulant for the player’s species and is readily metabolized.” 

Jurdin took the pad next, holding it in his lower set of hands and scrolling through it with his upper right.  His upper left hand twitched, betraying his anxiousness to begin.  “Rule seven: players are expected to remain in control of themselves, both physically and emotionally.  If a player wishes to leave the game to gain control themselves, they may do so without censure.  Any player whose control slips is subject to correction by the moderator.”  As a group, the students all looked to Master Helm.  Anakin paled.

“I trust you all know the consequences of losing control, Padawans?”  The councilor raised an eyeridge, a look which many might find comically exaggerated by alien features. 

Anakin was not amused.  _What happens?_

“No!” whimpered Goober.  With the stereo effect it sounded like a crowd scene in a bad holo-film.  “Not . . the hose!!”

Master Helm stood grimly.  “Indeed.”  Amidst the eye rolls and snickers at Goober, he gestured for Jurdin to pass on the pad to Edan. 

The hose?

Edan took the pad and leaned against the arm of the couch.  “Rule eight, the most important rule.”

“Stick to the script, Edan,” the councilor ordered.

The dark-haired boy heaved a long-suffering sigh, but straightened up when Master Helm opened his mouth to deliver a sterner reprimand.  “Rule eight: the players are not to take themselves, nor the game, overly seriously.  The game is neither an exam, nor a ritual.  While the game may test you, the moderator will not.  The players are encouraged to have fun.”  With something like a leer, he leaned over the side of the couch and dropped the pad into Anakin’s lap.  Ani jumped, startled.  “Your turn,” he winked, before sitting back at attention.

Anakin took a calming breath as he picked up the pad and scrolled it down, praying to the Force that he would be allowed to recite how many ties on a player’s tunic must be fastened and not something like how players were forbidden from engaging in blow jobs during the game.  “Rule nine,” he paused, blinking at the screen.  “how to play.”

They tell us how to kiss?!

Master Helm nodded at him, and picked up two small devices.  “Go on.”

“Each player’s name will be entered in each of two selector devices.  Names will be entered by the moderator to ensure fairness.”

The councilor waved both devices, then looked squarely at Anakin.  “I entered your name as ‘Ani.’  Is that acceptable Padawan Sk—”

“Yes!”  Anakin tried desperately not to blush as the Prudaenian blinked at him in surprise.  “Yes, that’s fine Master Helm.”  He looked back down at the pad.  “The moderator will activate both selectors to determine the first pairing.” 

His eyes had narrowed slightly at Anakin’s outburst, but Master Helm seemed willing to continue.  With a flourish, he activated both selectors.  The small gray boxes beeped gaily and the signal light blinked.  The councilor nodded for Ani to continue.

“Each pair selected has the option to either embrace or ask each other a question.  After the turn is finished, the paired players will each activate a selector to determine the next combination.  The selectors are not to be tampered with in any manner beyond activation by anyone other than the moderator.”  Anakin blinked as Master Helm bowed slightly and several padawans stifled giggles.  “Um, if both selectors choose the same player, the player may engage a turn with their player of choice.  The selectors are not wholly random, and do ensure that all players will be selected with the same relative frequency.”  Ohokto openly snorted at this.

He had reached the end of his rule.  With a sigh of relief, he got up from the floor and walked to the next couch to hand the pad to Sil.  She took it with a smile, while Von passed him a pillow to sit on.  Nodding his thanks, he returned to his place.

Sil ran a hand through her thick, dark hair and looked over the screen.  “Rule ten: Master Helm’s Rule.”  The master in question nodded, and she continued.  “Players should make an effort to get to know one another and be comfortable in each other’s presence before choosing to embrace.  As such, every player must participate in a question/answer pairing before any may choose to embrace.”  Squaring her shoulders, Sil handed the pad back to Master Helm. 

Taking back the pad, the Prudaenian stood quite straight and looked his charges over, nodding to himself in what looked like possible approval to Ani’s skeptical eye.  “As most of you know each other quite well, but not all of you, I do have a suggestion to expedite the game.  Perhaps you would all like to ask, . . Ani here a question and have him ask one in return.  It might help him get to know all of you a little better.”

Meekus blinked up at him in surprise.  “You mean the selectors have to be pair all of us with Ani before we can kiss anybody?” he asked incredulously.

The councilor gave him a look of patient amusement.  “I’m sure the lot of you are smart enough to take turns for the first round without the selectors, Meekus.”  The small boy’s skin flushed a light blue color, but he also seemed hard pressed not to laugh at himself.

“I think that will be fine Master Helm,” Goober sighed.  The Ithorian settled a bit into his grain-sac chair, then turned his large head to look at Ani across the room.  “Is that alright with you?”

Anakin nodded, grateful for the reprieve.  “Fine with me.”  He hoped he wasn’t blushing as he gave Master Helm a quick, grateful smile. 

The tall master nodded back at him, then turned to the group.  “On that note, I shall leave you all to your game.  After you go around the circle, you’ll find the first pairing has already been selected.  Mind the rules, enjoy yourselves, and . . beware the hose. . .”  And with that, the head of the Silvan Council swept from the room to continue his grade calculations with his own permanent game partner.

Anakin watched him go.  _What hose?_

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit scenes. These were the first explicit scenes I wrote back in the old m-a days, so please moderate your expectations

* * *

 

Qui-Gon glared menacingly at the datapad the healer had given him, then sneezed.  He was well aware that the seriously ill should not be allowed to work strenuously, neither mentally nor physically.  He, however, was not seriously ill, and did not appreciate healers restricting him as such.  He could see no reason why he could not go sparring, perform some katas or work in the machines gymnasium.   _Well, other than the fact that your sabre has mud INSIDE the casing, your hand is wrapped in Flexi-Bandages or that the healers would have your head and send you back to Master Yoda sealed in Biohazard film._   He vaguely wondered why the Silvan healers were so zealous with antiseptic procedures.  It wasn’t as if he had Rherzian Death Flu.

With a grumble, he tried to use the Force to levitate a commpad to his place on the couch, because he wasn’t supposed to walk because walking wasn’t restful enough.  Unfortunately, the commpad fell behind the desk because he wasn’t supposed to be using the Force for six hours after receiving his medication.  He wondered if crawling under the desk to get it would somehow be allowed under both directives, then decided he didn’t care because he was damn well going to check his messages.

After a bumped head on the underside of the desk and several more silent curses as he inadvertently leaned on his bandaged hand, he managed to get both himself and the wayward commpad back on the couch.  His throat beginning to tickle, he sipped at his now cold tea and activated the accursed device.

He began to wonder why he had wanted to read his messages in the first place.

The first message was from the Council on Coruscant, wanting to know the outcome of his latest mission.  He had already sent in his report, but the automatic messaging service had apparently been running on some sort of delay.  He deleted that message as redundant.  The second message was also from the Council; now having properly received his report of the mission, they were as usual asking if he was out of his so-called mind and why he had chosen to solve the diplomatic crisis in this manner.  Was he feeling quite all right?  Did he know what day it was?  Did he know that the Arkelian High Chancellor had his knickers in a twist over the whole thing?  Did he know this was quite a problem as Arkelians have six legs, so that was three pairs of knickers to twist?  Could he have possibly thought of another diplomatic solution that didn’t involve seducing a head of state?  Actually, he hadn’t seduced the Gurkian head of state this time.  It was just that . . well, he had last time, when Oxon hadn’t been the head of state and the man had a long memory.  He hadn’t actually slept with him.  This time.  And it actually  _had_  worked in his favor.  Sort of.

Certain he would just be called in front of the Council in person to answer these questions anyway,  _unless of course they have more serious questions to ask you_ , he deleted the second message and went on to the third. 

He should have left the pad where it was, lost forever behind the desk until it was vacuumed up by a house-cleaning droid or a disciplined padawan on punishment detail found it.  The third message was from Healer Zegmund, informing him that he had an appointment tomorrow evening, after first dinner hour, and that he should eat beforehand and bring any pills the healers might have given him because they were going to be there for quite awhile.  Healer Zegmund’s species slept approximately one hour a night, so yes, they could stay all night if they had to.  No arguments and no excuses.  Qui-Gon carefully noted the day and time, then deleted the message with relish.  Of course he was sure Zegmund would send another.  He had dealt with Jinn’s famous stubborn streak many times before.  The fourth message was a syntax-deficient paragraph from Yoda informing him that Healer Zegmund an appointment with him had and go he must and argue about it he will not.  Also, before delete message you do, it said, tea at half past noon is.  Bring biscuits you will.  Noting the biscuits on his own datapad, he deleted this message as well.

The fifth message was an offer for genuine Falleen pheromones at wholesale prices, just the thing to rev up his love life and get his ladies hot, hot, HOT!  Not terribly interested in the ladies, hot or otherwise, he rapidly sent this message into the Force with its fellows. 

The sixth and final message had come in while he was reading the previous five so he was somewhat surprised that anything came up at all after the last deletion.  Unsure what it was, he scanned it quickly before noting that it was a seminar completion notice from Anakin’s class.  Hoping the report was a good one and he would not receive some scathing comment about how he was raising a surly and rebellious Chosen One, who in all reality was just as surly as the rest of his peers, if a tad more rebellious, but then that was his fault, Qui-Gon plunged into the message.  Phrases he didn’t often see began to stick out at him.

_Good participation in class . . . clear understanding of materials . . . well prepared . . . engages discussions well . . . cooperative . . . good handling of confrontation without undue emotion . . . handles distractions well and gets down to work, even personal distractions . . . good insights, unconventional thinker . . ._

This was his padawan?  Well, the last one fit, but the rest were not comments he was accustomed to hearing from most of Anakin’s instructors. 

Fumbling for him personal communicator, he punched in the unfamiliar code at the bottom of the message.  It wasn’t that he didn’t actually believe the instructor was talking about his padawan, but, . . well, mix-ups do occur and it was in theory possible that the wrong report had been sent to him and some other master was trying to figure out why their apprentice had been rated ‘surly and rebellious.’  Or perhaps the class here was run using significantly different methods that for some reason his padawan excelled at.  He, as the master, should at least discover why this report had been so . . wonderful.  Or at least make sure the instructor didn’t think Padawan Skywalker would zap him into a black smudge on the rug if he were rated ‘average and satisfactory.’ 

As his communicator made the telltale clicks of a connection going through, Qui-Gon suddenly realized he had no idea who he was about to speak with.  Awkwardly, he transferred the comm to his injured hand, then scrabbled with his free hand to scroll down to the very end of the message.  The instructor’s name came into view just as his terribly familiar voice came through the comm.

“Kenobi.”  Clear.  Brisk.  Business-like.  No trace of the hesitation, of the trembling of yesterday.  No hint of the pain he must surely be in now.

“Hello?”  Qui-Gon closed his eyes and held his breath.  “Hello, . . is anyone there?”  He sounded the same.  Exactly the same.  His voice, his tone, his inflection, coming through the comm just as it had a thousand times before on hundreds of worlds.  “Hello?”

Obi-Wan.

He could hear comm-keys clicking.  “Is anyone there?  I can’t hear you.”  More key taps. “Hello?”

 _He’s trying to trace the call!_  

“Hel—”  Qui-Gon cut the connection.

Deeply disturbed, Qui-Gon curled up, his hands on his head, and trembled as that voice continued to echo in his mind.

_Hello?  Is anyone there?  Hello?_

He couldn’t say anything.  He couldn’t speak to him.

_What can you say after what you’ve done to him?_

_Hello?_

_What is there to say after what he’s done to you?_

_Is anyone there?_

No.  No one is there.  Outside the window, it started to rain.

Time passed and by the time the large drops had dappled the walkways with a wet, shiny glaze, Qui-Gon Jinn lifted his head.  Perhaps the healers were right.   _Maybe you should lay down and rest._   Chilled deep in his bones, he turned off his communicator and datapads and walked into the bedroom.  The covers were still pulled down from that morning.  Feeling ancient and weak, he closed the curtains enough to dim the room, then lay down on the bed.  After shifting around for a bit, and blowing his nose, he finally found a comfortable angle to rest at, and drifted into a light sleep, still listening to the cold spring rain on the roof above him.

As he drifted on the currents of his unconscious mind, the rain continued to fall, pattering in his ears, an unobtrusive, soothing sound.  Slowly, the voices still echoing through his head quieted, leaving only that gentle cadence.  He began to breathe more fully, deeply, naturally.

The early rays of dawn filtered through the rain clouds, washing the room in a pale, milky light.  Blinking, he looked up at the bare wood rafters of the cabin, listening to the drops fall against the roof and drip off the eaves.  A lone songbird, thwarted somewhat by the lingering rainfall after the storm, sang a brief morning aria.  He rolled over to wake his companion.

His beloved padawan was curled up on the other side of the bed, his back to him, dead to the world and enjoying the luxury of a rare day off in the negotiations by sleeping in.  A touch on his shoulder and he rolled back toward him, stretching, knees popping, but still quite warm, comfortable and asleep.  Propping his head up with his hand, Qui-Gon smiled down at him, wondering what kind of cruel master could disturb such a peaceful, well-deserved rest at the crack of dawn from one who was truly giving his all to help his mentor, particularly when they had arrived at the cabin long past dusk, drenched to the skin in the pouring rain and fierce winds the night before.

On the other hand, what kind of lover would allow a single precious second of a free day to go to waste?

Leaning over, he pressed a soft kiss to his dear one’s lips, then his forehead.  Looking almost ethereal in the pale light, like an elven prince from a fairy tale, his young apprentice promptly spoiled the effect by puffing air out his lips and swatting away his lover’s caresses with a vaguely irritated noise. 

Apparently romance was not on his dearest’s subconscious mind at the moment.

“Obi-Wan . .” he whispered, gently touching his shoulder.  He had to be careful to keep even the remotest sense of urgency out of his voice, knowing the young man was conditioned to wake suddenly in an emergency.  Nothing killed the mood faster than an unwarranted adrenaline rush.  Besides, they would need that adrenaline later.

Obi-Wan snorted and rolled his head away, sounding slightly more annoyed.  A sleepy jerk of his head and his braid pulled free from under his shoulder and he turned away, shifting so his buttocks backed into Qui-Gon’s stomach.  Presented with a different side of his lover, Jinn began running his hands over his padawan’s undershorts.  Obi-Wan wiggled, but remained oblivious.  Qui-Gon began to wonder if he was losing his touch.

Leaning over to inspect his padawan’s face, trying to determine whether his cheeky side was coming out and the rat was faking, Qui-Gon felt something ticklish brush the underside of his arm.  He looked down, spying the red-gold tuft of Obi-Wan’s braid.  His face took on a sithly grin as he picked up the loose end of the plaited length. 

The red-gold strands caught the morning light, brilliant filaments in the early glow, as he brushed them along his padawan’s nose.  Obi-Wan snuffled, trying to rid himself of their itching tickle.  He waved them again, along the fine nostrils, tweaking as the young man tried blowing them away, but withdrawing when his hand came up to resume its swatting. 

Stifling a chuckle that was trying to break free, Qui-Gon resumed his attack with sudden vigor.  The effect was amazing.  With something between a yelp and a roar, Obi-Wan exploded half out of the bed, a warrior-honed arm swinging out violently.  Slightly startled by the intensity of this reaction, Qui-Gon nevertheless dropped the braid in due haste,  _no sense in holding on to the incriminating evidence_ , and blocked the punch aimed in his general direction.

After a long moment of silence, during which time he could feel his padawan’s accusing glare as he wiped his nose clear, he looked up.  Obi-Wan eyed him, looking . . . as pissed as a wet cat.  Qui-Gon tried to appear innocent.

“Whatever were you dreaming about, Padawan?  I thought you were going to pummel me in your sleep.”

Obi-Wan’s scowl deepened.  “Was there something you needed, Master?” he hissed.  Qui-Gon thought he looked adorably rumpled as he released the young man’s arm.  Obi-Wan had jumped so far upon awakening that he now had one leg on the floor; the other remained tangled in the bedsheets.  His short hair stuck out in all directions, the end of his braid was bedraggled and his expression was so severe, Qui-Gon was tempted to warn him that if he kept it up his face would stick.  “Was there something so pressing Master, that you felt it necessary to try to suffocate me by shoving my own padawan braid up my nose?  Is this some sort of ritual test the Council failed to warn me about, or just a native grooming technique you felt you had to experience?”

Qui-Gon Jinn looked down at his side of the bedsheets in his lap and tried to look sheepish.  Lowering his mental shields to feel out Obi-Wan’s mood, he was met with a cold hard wall, perfectly matched to the fierceness in his padawan’s eyes.  It was almost enough to make him feel truly guilty about the whole thing.

“I was hungry,” he said at last.

Obi-Wan bristled at this in an endearing manner and made to get out of the bed.  Qui-Gon’s hand on his arm stopped him and he turned to face him, glaring.  “Is there some reason why Jedi masters are incapable of pouring their own breakfast grains?”

Qui-Gon grinned slyly and Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow in response.  “I don’t want breakfast grains, Padawan,” he whispered as he leaned in close to his bedmate’s glowering countenance, a suggestive gleam in his eye.  “I want you.”  With a Jedi’s patience, he tried to kiss his stubborn apprentice’s frown into a smile.

As he pulled away, he noticed it wasn’t working.  The deep groove which appeared between Obi-Wan’s brows whenever he was concentrating or deeply annoyed was still quite prominent.  Still unsure of how angry the young man was, Qui-Gon sat back and gave him his full attention.

“You will never do that again.”

“I’m sorry Obi-Wan.”  He smiled hopefully.  “I do want you.”

Obi-Wan snorted.  “You said that last time.” 

“Um, yes Obi-Wan, I did.”  He didn’t remember his padawan taking it quite this seriously the last time he had used this tactic.

“You know what this means, Master.”  Obi-Wan crossed his arms and glared even harder.  Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows in query.  “I get to be on top!”

Qui-Gon fell back on the bed with a grunt as his lover tackled him and proceeded to get acquainted with his neck.  He chuckled as Obi-Wan found  _that_  spot behind his ear and his hands began to roam.  Apparently he was forgiven.  “I trust you are hungry too, Obi-Wan?” he asked, bringing his hands up to Obi-Wan’s waistband in a bid to distract him. 

Obi-Wan slid up his body to look him straight in the face, his eyes dancing.  “As long as I’m up, I might as well . . eat.”  He ended this statement by lowering his lips to Qui-Gon’s, and slipping his tongue between them when the elder moved to answer.  So much for his attempt at distraction.  For his part, Obi-Wan seemed quite content with just this slow foreplay, at least until Jinn regained his senses and slipped his hands into the young man’s shorts.  Obi-Wan lifted his head to make some witty remark and Qui-Gon gasped in a breath and flipped them back over. 

It was a game they had played many times before, stemming partly from Obi-Wan’s wrestling training, but mostly from his embarrassed confession in the early days of their relationship that he harbored a fear of Qui-Gon crushing him.  A few throwing exercises and a very hot encounter on Obi-Wan’s gymnastics mat had put that little phobia to rest.  However, when Obi-Wan had said he was going to be ‘on top,’ he meant it quite literally.  Qui-Gon on the other hand, had other ideas, for both meanings of the double entendre.

Abandoning Obi-Wan’s neck, knowing if he continued his padawan would have a hickey too large to heal before the negotiations tomorrow, Qui-Gon began to fumble along the headboard above them for their sexual lubricant.  Beneath him, his apprentice laughed in delight at his perplexed expression before latching onto one of his nipples.  With his master overbalanced and caught by surprise, Obi-Wan tipped the scales and rolled them both over. 

“Impatient, aren’t you?” he asked as he released the bud and pinned Qui-Gon’s arms to the bed.  “You’re looking for lube and I’m not even naked.” He slid his still-clad groin over Jinn’s bare erection, a devilish grin on his face.  “You have a plan I don’t know about?”

His arms well-secured, Qui-Gon tried to shift his legs, but his padawan was having none of it.  A clever bit of Force use and an unnecessarily acrobatic position change left the Jedi master at his apprentice’s mercy, arms and legs akimbo.  Eyes never leaving his lover’s face, Obi-Wan lowered his groin until he could again tease his captive.  Qui-Gon moaned.

“Why Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan’s voice was like honey.  “You look all hot and bothered.”  He gave the manhood below him a particularly sensuous rub.  “Is there something you need?”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon gritted out between his teeth as his naughty padawan ground into him harder, the younger man’s own penis finally becoming erect.  The sudden, hot hardness pressed against him made his heart beat all the faster.  Obi-Wan had always been somewhat slow to arouse, but . .  _oh_  it was worth it.  The cotton shorts rubbed against him again as Obi-Wan grew impatient with his slow response.  “I need to buy you nicer, oh, underwear!”

As expected, this caused Obi-Wan’s efforts to collapse, his bright peals of laughter ringing through the room as he rolled off his master, convulsing.  “But, haha, but, ha,” he rocked on his back until Qui-Gon pinned him chest to chest.  “But Master,” he said, still chuckling between breaths.  “I like cotton.”

Qui-Gon stared down at him, eyes twinkling.  “I don’t,” he growled back and without further ado, he stripped off Obi-Wan’s shorts and flung them across the room.  Still laughing, content to lie on the bottom anyway, his apprentice pulled his head down to indulge in more leisurely kissing.  “Mmmm,” he pulled back to look into Obi-Wan’s suddenly smoky eyes.  The lube could wait.

“Touch me.”  Obi-Wan looked up at him, his eyes asking as much as his voice.  Qui-Gon allowed his hands to be guided to his apprentice’s back and buttocks, skimming over the well-known flesh as Obi-Wan gasped, throwing his head back.  Taking the hint, Qui-Gon buried his head in Obi-Wan’s neck as the young man’s hips began to rise up against his in earnest.  Trailing kisses up his face, he felt bold hands mapping out his own back, wrapping around his neck, pulling him even closer.   _Yes._  This was what he wanted.

Rolling onto his side, Qui-Gon pulled his apprentice with him.  Not objecting in the slightest, Obi-Wan slid down a bit to nip at his collarbone, then threw a leg over his master’s, pulling them together.  Certain now that his padawan wouldn’t complain, Qui-Gon made good on his effort to locate the lubricant. 

Obi-Wan appeared to agree with him, because the previously elusive container was now right in front of him, the innocuous-looking hand-pump sitting at the edge of the shelf above their heads.  He gasped as his bedmate latched onto his other nipple and hastened to collect the fine gel in his palm.  His goal attained, he returned his attention to more pleasant endeavors, a tad prideful that he didn’t spill, even as Obi-Wan ground into him harder. 

With his free hand, he firmly pushed Obi-Wan’s head away and up to meet his face.  As Obi-Wan moved to meet his kiss, his slick hand reached their groins, smearing the now warm gel.  Obi-Wan shuddered against him as their rather pleasant sliding became something utterly more intense.  Slipping his tongue into his apprentice’s willing mouth, he found the strong, youthful erection with his slickened hand and gave it a generous squeeze.  His padawan tore away from the kiss, loosing a deep moan that likely disturbed the birds nesting outside the cabin.  Qui-Gon grinned and squeezed again, taking care to rub against Obi-Wan’s most sensitive areas, and was rewarded by another shuddering moan.  The young man was usually much more inhibited, but they were entirely alone in the woods.  Unlike when they were in their sometimes thin-walled quarters, if anyone heard them out here, it was their own fault for intruding.

“Obi-Wan,” he whispered between delicate kisses to the young man’s neck, his cheek, his temple.  “Obi-Wan, I want you.”  The young man in question continued to moan as his slick hand continued its slow, deliberate movement along his manhood.  “Obi-Wan, I want to be inside you.”  His kisses continued, and he ran his fingers along the sensitive head, gratified by the feel of warm secretions seeping into his hand.  “Do you want to let me in Obi-Wan?”

Not surprisingly, his apprentice moaned at the sensations from his hands and his words.  “Ohhh, oh Force, ohh.”  Qui-Gon slid his hands around Obi-Wan’s waist, using his arms to grind them together, his slickened fingers teasingly close to his goal.  He bit back his own moan as his erection slid alongside Obi-Wan’s and the young man’s breath hitched.  “Ohh.”

“Is this,” he had to take a breath before he could continue.  “Is this what you want?”

Obi-Wan began to tremble.  “Oh, yes.  Ohh.”  With an effort his apprentice pulled back and turned away from him.  Following the established routine, Qui-Gon sat up to retrieve the lubricant, then pulled Obi-Wan back against his chest to whisper in his ear as he prepared him. 

It was a well-loved ritual between them.  Though he relished seeing Obi-Wan’s face as he was made ready, staring into his eyes, his apprentice found his intense scrutiny overly stimulating.  As it was his padawan was touching himself at known pressure points, cooling his arousal before he came from the foreplay alone.  Giving his bright lover a gentle peck on the cheek, Qui-Gon resigned himself to not being able to watch those eyes and pumped a generous quantity of gel into his palm, taking care to slick both hands thoroughly.    _Besides, out in the woods as we are, I’m sure the sounds will more than make up for the lack of visuals._

“Ready, Beautiful?” he asked as his now quite slippery hand slid between Obi-Wan’s thighs.  Obligingly, the young man lifted up one knee and nodded.  Leaning so his lips teased the shell of his lover’s ear, Qui-Gon’s finger drifted up a lean leg until it teased at the goal it had sought.  Obi-Wan shifted slightly at the touch and Qui-Gon wrapped his other arm across his stomach, drawing him closer as he continued to tease.  “You’re a little tense,” he observed, whispering seductively.

“I was . . uh, awoken,” he took a deep breath.  “By a rude . . little . . man . . Oh!”  Suddenly his master’s finger entered and Obi-Wan rocked back hard against him.  “Oh, . . oh more,” he panted as Qui-Gon began to twist his hand.  “Ohhh . . .”

Qui-Gon smiled against his ear, knowing from long experience that the key to relaxing his padawan for penetration lay in his soothing voice, no matter that Obi-Wan would soon be begging for more fingers.  “Do you like that?  Does that feel good?”  The muscles around his finger spasmed a moment before letting the digit all the way in.  He held back his own moan as his apprenticed tightened around him like a vise. 

“Yes!  Yes!  More, ohh, more . .”  Qui-Gon eyes wandered aimlessly as his captured finger began to grope around for Obi-Wan’s prostate.  After four and half years he certainly found it much more easily than he had that first time, but it was never quite in the place he expected.   _No, not there._   Obi-Wan continued to tremble, working to slow his breathing to something approaching normal.  Qui-Gon tried again, a whisper of Force pulling his hand the other way.  He was rewarded with a near shriek as he made contact.

“GODS!  Oh!  More!  Please!  More!  OH!  OH!  OH!”  Obi-Wan began to writhe in his arms as Qui-Gon rhythmically moved in and out, each pass punctuated by a loud cry as his prostate was brushed.  “OH!  OH!  OH!  MAH!  MASTER!”  Qui-Gon froze, taking the signal that his padawan was too close, that he needed to calm down, to breathe.  Very slowly, he slipped his finger out and coated it with more gel while Obi-Wan lay panting and trembling. 

When Obi-Wan had calmed enough to lie still, he slid his hand down to caress him again.  “Are you ready for more, Obi-Wan?”  He nuzzled at the place where his padawan’s braid joined to his scalp, then nibbled at his ear.  “Do you want me to touch you again?  To touch inside you?”  The young man shuddered as two slick fingers began to tease at his opening.  “Do you want me to touch you Obi-Wan?” 

“Yes,” Obi-Wan managed in a calm voice.  “But not so, ha!” he gasped as both fingers entered.  “Not! Not so deep this time!”  Seemingly against his will, the young man began his sensual writhing once more.  “Want . . . ohhhhh, . . want to wait.”

Qui-Gon grinned against his ear, but kept his voice low and smooth as silk.  “Alright, Obi-Wan.  I can wait.  I can wait to feel you all around me as you climax.  I can wait for the look in your eyes as I make love to you.”  He twisted his fingers.  “I can wait for you.”  With a gasp, Obi-Wan’s muscles loosened again and both fingers were able to enter fully.  Qui-Gon closed his eyes and relished the deep groan that vibrated across his chest.

“Ohhh,  oh,” his padawan reached back as he panted, touching him anywhere he could, trying to reciprocate but not quite able to.  “It’s  ohhh . . I . .”  Qui-Gon began twisting and stretching, sabotaging Obi-Wan’s efforts.  Another moan and the young man grabbed at his head, his hand trembling.  “How . . ohhh, . . want . . want to, ha, make, ha, make love to you too.” 

Chuckling, Qui-Gon brushed his beard against the hand at his cheek, then resumed his ministrations.  Obi-Wan sighed and stroked the arm across his chest as his master removed his fingers yet again, and slicked them up once more.  But before he could enter that sleek body again, Obi-Wan rolled over on top of him.  Allowing himself to be pressed back onto the bed, Qui-Gon looked up at his dear one in surprise until he was thoroughly kissed. 

“Did you change your mind, Obi-Wan?”

His padawan grinned down at him.  “No, I didn’t change my mind.”  He leaned down to kiss his elder again, his hands sliding down to fondle firm buttocks.  “I just thought you might be getting . . bored.”  Another kiss, then he picked up the lubricant Qui-Gon had laid aside, filling his palm.  Taking care not to spill, he got up on his knees and straddled his master’s thighs, before he slowly and deliberately took his lover’s erection in hand, rubbing in the warmed gel, coating and recoating the organ until it glistened, as slick and smooth as his own passage. 

It was Qui-Gon’s turn to moan.  “Ohhhhh, . .”  It was always a great pleasure when Obi-Wan took the initiative, something that had been happening with greater frequency as his experience grew and their relationship progressed.   _Force, how does he know how to . . how to make me feel so . ._  

“Ohhhhh, Obi-Wan,” his own breath started coming in rapid pants as one of those strong, elegant hands drifted down his scrotum, half-tease, half-caress.  The other hand continued its relentless massage of his hot, hard penis, carefully lifting it off his well- toned stomach.   _Gods, I could come from this, from the thought of him, the sight of him . . . from his touch . ._   He gasped suddenly, almost losing his tight control when he felt soft kisses, like moth’s wings, against his sensitive belly.

“Obi-Wan!” he cried.  The young man raised his head and smiled down at him, eyebrow raised in query.  He tried not to tremble but the pleased expression on his padawan’s face showed his efforts to be in vain.  “I thought, ha, I thought you wanted to wait.”

His lover gave him another sensuous stroke, eyeing him from beneath his lashes.  “I wanted to wait until we were both ready.”  Slowly,  _oh_  so slowly, he lay down, covering Qui-Gon with his body, and  _oh_ , squirming and sliding over him until they were face to face.  Obi-Wan leaned in close, brushing lips as he spoke.  “Are you ready now, Master?”

When his young lover began to pull away, Qui-Gon followed, pulling him down into another sensual kiss.  As he found Obi-Wan’s tongue with his own, mapping his sharp, white teeth, it occurred to him that he should have answered a question.  His partner didn’t seem to be complaining about it, but the erection along his own felt as if it were throbbing in time with the heart beating against his chest and the sleek buttocks and pelvis below his hands were moving in an irresistibly erotic rhythm.  They were both ready.

Tearing himself from the kiss, sorely tempted to just hump and grind them both to completion, he gasped like a drowning man.  “Yes Obi-Wan!  I’m ready!  Yes!”  For his part, Obi-Wan lay against his shoulder, panting and trembling.  After several long moments, the young man gained control of himself and sat up, straddling Qui-Gon’s thighs, staring down at him, his eyes dark, his pupils dilated as if high on opiates.  Jinn shuddered at the look; though his passion was reined in for the moment, his lover was desperately aroused. 

“Good,” the young man whispered as he took his master’s hand in his own and rose to his knees.  “Help me,” he requested, as he gently, almost clinically took his lover’s raging erection in the other hand and positioned it beneath himself.  Qui-Gon groaned, desperate to keep his body still, as he felt the hot, moist flesh touch to his own.  Almost instinctively, he reached for Obi-Wan’s other hand to help him balance as his apprentice worked to relax the loosened muscles once more.  Carefully, his padawan began to press himself down against the rampant organ, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, his breath coming in long, deep breaths, Qui-Gon swore he could feel as his own.  Still holding his body still, not willing to risk harming his lover for all the galaxy, Qui-Gon slid his thumbs across the tops of Obi-Wan’s hands, a terribly small caress, but all he could trust himself to do at the moment.  With a deep moan, louder and longer than any he had released before, Obi-Wan’s body opened and he began the slow slide down to meet his master. 

The feel of his lover coming to rest against his groin sent a jolt of electricity through Qui-Gon’s tensed body.  “YES!”  Obi-Wan did not move to look at him, but a small smile played along his lips just before he clenched his gluteal muscles, tightening down on the flesh of his lover.  Qui-Gon let out a grunt between hard-clenched teeth, still holding back, and pressed his head back into the bed, tears leaking out from tightly shut lids.   _So . . so  . . good . . ohh . . so good._   Obi-Wan brought their joined hands together, then leaned down to rest his forehead on them, concentrating on his own sensations for a moment.  With an effort, Qui-Gon got his breathing under control.  Obi-Wan began to shift slightly, squeezing and relaxing to pleasure his lover as he sought his own ideal position.  Qui-Gon was lost.

“Uh, . . uh . . oh!”  Qui-Gon’s eyes flew open and Obi-Wan’s grin widened.  Apparently his padawan had been practicing a new use for Jedi muscle control.  “Ohhhhhh, Obi-Wan, you’re . . . ohhh, . . so tight, ha!”  He gasped again as his lover straightened up above him, carefully withdrawing, then sliding back down, testing the path of the hard shaft within him, adjusting himself to a more pleasing angle.  Qui-Gon trembled as the hot, tight pressure of his padawan’s body retreated and returned, slowly, over and over.  “So, . ha, so good, . . ohhhhh, . so . . ohhh more!”  He looked up at the young man, eyes pleading with him for more, more of his body, more of his movements, more pleasure, even as his will failed him and he began to tremble, his hips betraying him with a tiny, unwilled thrust. 

At that movement, Obi-Wan looked down at him, smiling.  Qui-Gon stared up at this beautiful man above him, the well-defined muscles of his chest, his elegant neck, his still impossibly dark eyes.  The young man had stilled against him, and gazed at him as if he were some artistic masterpiece he would never see again and was committing to memory.  Still trembling with a need so great he could barely contain it, his erection throbbing, his skin burning for touch, his body screaming at him to  _move_ , Qui-Gon felt a small whimper escape, even as part of him wondered what exactly Obi-Wan had been looking at. 

Without uttering a word or looking away, Obi-Wan brought Qui-Gon’s hands to his lips, kissing each in turn.  Another thrust escaped his lover’s control, and Obi-Wan tipped his head back, eyes closing.  “Mmmmm,” he murmured, lowering and flattening his master’s hands against his nipples, silently willing him to run his slick palms over the sensitive, rosy nubs.  As Qui-Gon moved to comply, Obi-Wan began their dance of passion. 

He began to move, slowly at first, building up speed as their ardor grew, his deep, careful breaths shortening as his control began to loosen.  Qui-Gon thrust again, deliberately this time, and Obi-Wan gasped, a surprised and delighted sound.

“Oh!”  He slid his hands down Qui-Gon’s to rest on his forearms as he began to move faster, his powerful, toned thighs pumping him up and down, his hips rocking back and forth, his muscles squeezing and relaxing intermittently and unpredictably.  Before he could begin his next slide down, Qui-Gon thrust up into him, harder this time, staring, mesmerized as Obi-Wan threw his head back again, crowing, as his trembling, leaking erection bobbed with the motion of their bodies, its desperate state begging for his touch, even as Obi-Wan kept his hands still, more intent on other sensations.  “Hah!  More!”  Qui-Gon moved to comply, and Obi-Wan began to cry out with each thrust.

“Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  More!  Harder!  Oh!  Oh!”  His skin began to gleam in the rising dawn, his sweat painting him in a healthy glow.  Qui-Gon began thrusting harder, deeper into that terribly wonderful heat, gasping at the tight muscles, the moist, smooth motions, the familiar contours, the ever-changing pressure.  Above him, Obi-Wan writhed in joyous abandon, then slid his hands down and under Qui-Gon’s arms.  His own hands now free to move, Qui-Gon glided them over Obi-Wan’s taut chest and stomach to clutch tightly at his hips, pulling him harder to himself, impaling himself deeper, heightening their pleasure as his lover’s chanting grew faster, louder, and more impassioned in response.  “OH!  OH!  YES!  Yes!  LIKE THAT!  YES!  YES!  THERE!  OH!  HARDER!  HARDER!  YES!  MORE!  OH!  YES!”

Against his will, Qui-Gon’s excited passion began to escape in deep groans.  “Uhhhh, ohhhh, ohhhhhh,  Ohhhh,  Obi-Wan!  OHHHH!  OH, GOOD!  OHHHH!”  He wanted it, he wanted it now.  He could feel it coming, slowly but seemingly inexorably as his muscles and nerves tightened in anticipation.  This was good,  _oh so good_ , but what was coming . .  _soon, so soon_  would be so much better and Obi-Wan knew this, he felt it coming too, because  _ohhhhh_  he was leaning forward now, like he always did when it was like this between them because then his painfully hard shaft would brush against his lover’s gland in that  _ooh, Obi-Wan_ , that way that was so good,  _so, so good_ , that the beautiful young man above him could only take it for mere moments before he would climax, screaming Qui-Gon’s name.

It was the only time in their lives together that Obi-Wan ever called him by name.

The ever-present whisper of the Force became a thunderous rush in his ears, overpowering even his now pounding heart beat.  He opened himself to it more strongly, opened himself to Obi-Wan’s self.  Looking up at his beloved, he had to close his eyes against a sudden rush of tears, but the image of the young man, Obi-Wan, his Obi-Wan sharing himself, making love to him, would forever be burned in his memory.  Seeing his lover through the Force revealed a glowing luminescence, not the reflected light of sun on sweat, but the Light within him.  The joy in being with him.  The soul desperately seeking to join his own.

The love that in this moment alone he would never doubt and returned fully with all his heart.

He knew what to do.

A push of mind, body and Force, he reached out to Obi-Wan, pulling him to his chest, even as he pushed them both over to lay on top of him.  The young man had only the briefest moment to be surprised to find himself at the foot of the bed and beneath his master before Qui-Gon’s thrusts, now strengthened by his weight, began to register.  The lines of Force between them joined as their bodies came into alignment. 

Obi-Wan began to scream.

Qui-Gon had no time to be afraid now, although later he would question Obi-Wan carefully to be sure he hadn’t hurt him.  A split second after his lover began to shake beneath him, his semen spilling between them, Qui-Gon felt it in the Force; a near perfect connection of body and mind, a glimpse of their bodies, struggling toward the fulfillment of nature’s plan.  The attempted mating of cells coupled with a complete mating of souls.

And he came.

After a time, the Force connection faded, as all must.  Qui-Gon’s breath began to slow, as did his heart beat.  Obi-Wan’s hands weakly reached up to slip through his sweaty hair, and after a moment soft lips began to brush at his cheeks, murmuring his name between gentle kisses, gasping for breath in the afterglow.

“Qui-Gon . . . . Qui-Gon. . . . Qui-Gon . . . .”

He raised his head, too exhausted to do more than slide half-off his still-stunned lover, and gazed down into Obi-Wan’s eyes.  One of the young man’s hands slipped from his hair to caress his bearded cheek, still staring at him in wonder.  Qui-Gon opened his mouth to speak.

He was going to say it.  He was going to tell him this time.  He knew it was safe now.  He knew what the reward would be, knew that Obi-Wan would tell him the same back, if only he finally spoke  _those_  words.  If he finally told him. 

Obi-Wan smiled at him.  “Qui-Gon, . .”

“I—”

The burning pain slammed into his chest, a star going nova in his heart as he was violently pulled off his lover and slammed onto his back.

“MASTER!”

The full dawn light wrenched into a kaleidoscope of painfully brilliant lights and terrifying darks that swam through his vision.   _OBI-WAN!_   He opened his mouth, gasping like a fish, but he couldn’t get enough air to get the words out.   _OBI-WAN!_

“I WON’T LET YOU DIE, DO YOU HEAR ME?  I WON’T LET YOU DIE!”  That voice was loud, but his mind, his mind was so far away.

_OBI-WAN!_

He tried to get up, to rise despite the pain and go find Obi-Wan, but another sledgehammer blow to the chest dropped him back to the hard mattress.  Something grabbed each wrist, binding him to the bed.  Terrified, he looked up to see a Naboo nurse at each arm, lashing him with hospital restraints.

“Now Master Jinn, be reasonable,” the female nurse on his left, a blond, leaned down to address him after securing his arm.  “You know you can’t get better until you stop fighting us,”

The nurse on his right tightened that cuff, then tossed his dark green locks in what he thought was a fetching manner.  “Besides, Maaaaster, if you behave and eat your fruit gel, I’ll let you tie me up next.” 

The blond, not to be outdone, grabbed his chin and leaned into his face.  “But we both know Kennor can’t have you until I’m done with you, can he Master Jedi?”  She winked, a gesture both flirtatious and ghastly, as her face came into focus.

“Siri?” he gasped.  She grinned at his recognition, then began running her hand over his bound arm in an almost coquettish manner.  He ground his teeth against the pain in his lungs.  “Siri, where’s Obi-Wan?” 

She began to laugh uproariously, her giggles high-pitched and jarring, like the laughter he had once heard in an asylum for the mad.  Kennor joined in, his howling equally painful, and somehow even shriller in tone. 

“Oh, Qui-Gon,” she twittered at last.  “What do you want a whore like that for?”  She laughed harder, laying her blond locks on his arm as if she owned it.

“Whore?” he asked, confused.

“Yes, Maaaaster, why would you need a whore like him, when you have a whore like meeee?”  The young man opened his healer’s tunic to play with his nipple ring.  “Don’t you like us anymore?” he pouted. 

“Obi-Wan,” he begged, his strength failing him, even as his desperation grew.  “Siri, please, get Obi-Wan.”

“Oh alright!”  She rolled her eyes, then stood up, grabbed his shoulders and wrenched him up into a sitting position, a painful mockery of proper patient care.  “If you really want to see the fuck up, then fine, there he is.”  Kennor remained oblivious, still absorbed by his piercing.

“Obi-Wan?”

And there he was, at the foot of the bed, dressed as he had last seen him, that day, in full knight’s regalia, his braid freshly shorn, clothes neat, his new sabre shining at his side.  But his face was blank, utterly business-like, as if he were in hostile negotiations, eyes revealing nothing.  “Kenobi.”

“Obi-Wan!”  Unable to reach out to him, he fisted his hands, pulling at the secure ties.  “Obi-Wan, help me!  Get me out of here!”  He began to shake at the cold, emotionless look in his former padawan’s eyes.

“I’m sorry Master Jinn.”  Cold. 

_Obi-Wan!_

“I’m afraid I’ve taken another position—”  Businesslike.

_Don’t leave me!_

“and I won’t be able to say goodbye to you properly.”

“Obi-Wan, help me, please!”

“May the Force be with you, always.”

“Obi-Wan!”

“Ohhhhhhhhhh!”  A deep moan sounded through the room, it’s echoes on the sterile tiling multiplying it.  Obi-Wan turned mechanically to face the curtained bed on the other side of the room, staring at it intently.  Another moan drifted from behind the curtain.

“Hello?”  Obi-Wan began to walk toward it, inexorably.  “Is anyone there?” 

Qui-Gon struggled again with his restraints.  “Obi-Wan!”

“Ohhhhhhhhh!”

Having reached the curtain, Obi-Wan pulled it back to reveal a woman.   _That woman!_   Lying in the other bed, knees drawn up and fondling herself, that woman with the bright red hair, those deep blue eyes, looked up at Obi-Wan, grinning.  “Yes, Knight Kenobi,” she pursed her lips in a kiss, then turned her head to grin back at Qui-Gon and his nurses.  “I really, really need you to take that new position Obi-Wan, right now, ohhhhhh!”  She tossed her head back and moaned again as Obi-Wan began to strip with all the emotion of a droid, despite his massive, dripping erection, no doubt as hot and hard as it had ever been with Qui-Gon.

_Obi-Wan!_

“Oh, damn,” Kennor whined.  “It’s a bloody girl!  What kind of position is that?”  In a huff, he pulled his tunic off completely, then settled into a ward chair and thrust his hand in his pants.  “Just have to entertain myself,” he muttered, annoyed.

Siri smacked Kennor in annoyance before lowering the safety rail and snuggling up to Qui-Gon on her side of the bed, her actions barely registering.  “I told you he was a whore, Master Jedi.”  She ran her hands through his hair, petting it away from his face, then adjusted his IV lines with simpering care.  Qui-Gon continued to stare across the room, unable to look away, as Obi-Wan, his visibly throbbing erection leading the way, climbed naked, on the bed and approached the woman.

“Hello.”

“No!  Obi-Wan!”

“Take that new position Knight Kenobi!”  The red-haired woman cupped her breasts and spread her legs farther. “Take it!  Take it!”

“Please, just take it already,” Siri whined, still petting him as Obi-Wan seemed to waver for a moment.

“Obi-Wan!  Come back!”

“Or just come already, Bi-Boy!”  Kennor spat in disgust at the heterosexual display and began rubbing himself more vehemently.  “Make up your mind!”

“Obi-Wan!”

“Take it!”

_Obi-Wan!_

He took it. 

In a second, Qui-Gon’s dreams crashed, his heart breaking all over again, as Obi-Wan plunged deep into the woman on the bed and began pumping in time with her moans. 

“Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,”

Obi-Wan’s face remained expressionless, never saying a word, never crying in pleasure, only his breath changing to silent pants timed to his thrusts.  The woman on the bed continued to pleasure herself throughout the encounter, though Obi-Wan made no other move to touch her beyond the penetration.  Qui-Gon’s tears began to fall as her cries grew louder, more frantic, her climax approaching.

“OH!  OH!  OH!  OBI-WAN!  OBI-WAN!  OBI-WAN!”

“Yes, yes, we all know his stupid name,” Siri griped, then bent to nibble at Qui-Gon’s ear.  “Want me to call your name like that?”  She bit at the lobe.  “Qui-Gon?  Do you?”

_Obi-Wan, no . . I . ._

“YES!   YES!  YES!”

_I thought you loved me._

And then it happened.  So slowly at first that he thought he must be imagining it, but no, it really was happening.  As the woman on the bed climaxed, her cries echoing through the room, Obi-Wan continued to thrust mechanically into her.  At first it seemed to be only the jerking rise and fall of her hips, but no, it wasn’t.  With each thrust, her belly began to swell, just a little bit, as if Obi-Wan’s penis were pumping her full of air instead of semen.  After several thrusts, her once flat stomach now rounded and taut, she reached her hands around the bulging flesh, and ran them over it, moaning again, not in pain as the unnatural swelling continued, but in shocked pleasure as the mound of her body continued to grow with each thrust.

“Oh . . more . . more . .it’s growing . . ohhhhhh!”

And as Qui-Gon lay helpless with his mad nurses, Obi-Wan continued to thrust away coldly, the now rapturous woman’s belly still growing between them until it became so large he could no longer enter her from that position.   Her legs still spread wide, she moaned again, and ran her hands over the mass, now clearly in the full bloom of pregnancy.

Obi-Wan blinked as if just awakening, then looked down at the enormous belly between them, the womb he had filled with the fruit of his loins.  Startled, he strained to look over it, to face the woman still moaning on the bed, her face rapt with pleasure, as if caught in perpetual orgasm. 

Forever in bliss.

_I thought you loved me._

Still confused, Obi-Wan looked back and forth again from belly to face while the red-haired woman smiled back at him.

 _Me_.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

Qui-Gon sat bolt upright in bed, tissues flying everywhere.  The crotch of his pants was damp, his hair was sweaty and the rain outside was pounding hard on the roof above him.  For a moment, the voices from his dream continued to swirl through his thoughts.

_What do we do now?_

_What do you want a whore like that for?_

_Take it!  Take it!_

_I thought you loved me._

“That wasn’t what happened,” he said to himself, shivering as he drew his arms around himself and huddled into a fetal position.  “He didn’t do  _that_.”   _No, he didn’t fuck that woman in the ward.  He didn’t leave me calling after him like that.  He . . . did leave._

 _And I never told him_.

In the now driving rain, Qui-Gon Jinn cried himself, too late, into a dreamless sleep.

 


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

 

_Well this isn’t so bad, what were you worried about Skywalker?_   Grabbing a mint out of the bowl, Anakin sucked on the hard candy and waited for the next question.  So far, they had gone easy on him, presumably in hopes that he would go easy on them. 

It had been fairly standard questions and answers so far.  Playing it safe, he had opted to ask the same question back each time.  Where were you born?  Sil was born here on Silva and no one had heard of the dustball that was Tattooine.  What kind of music do you like?  Goober preferred r’it-stolt and blues to Anakin’s rock and metal.  What discipline do you like most and least? Elion enjoyed sabrework a good deal more than hyperspace equation theory, while Anakin also enjoyed sabrework, _heck, everybody liked sabrework_ , and loathed philosophy, mainly because the instructors always seemed to think he was wrong.  Elion laughed and changed his answer to anything the Decimator was and was not teaching, citing Anakin’s reasoning.  The group laughed heartily, Elion included.  Anakin tried not to choke on his water.  He was having a good time.  It was almost like having friends. 

And then Meekus asked his question.

“Who is your master?  What’s your master like?”

“Um,” Anakin began to sweat.  “My master?”  _Why did they have to ask about that?!  Being Master Jinn’s padawan is almost as bad as being the Chosen Scum!!_   “You’ve um . . probably never heard of him . .”  _if you were brain dead for the last twenty years_ ,  “and um, well.”  _Just answer the second question and maybe they won’t notice._

“My master, is um, male, human and um, an excellent swordsman, and . . . he does mostly diplomatic work.  He used to do a lot of work for Chancellor Valorum’s office, but doesn’t get along well with Chancellor Palpatine for some reason.”  He looked up, hoping the others had been bored with the politics.  Unfortunately, the others seemed to be interested.  _Damn_.  “Um, he’s . . . huge, and he really enjoys working me until I’m ready to throw in the towel and then he works me some more.”  Several other padawans laughed at the familiar experience.  Anakin grinned.  “I mean, he’s like fifty years older than me.  I keep waiting for him to get too old to beat me, but it hasn’t happened yet.” 

“Yes!” Ohokto whooped.  “It’s not just me!”

“Well,” Anakin admitted.  “I can beat him at Huttese dominos, but I think it’s because he can’t read the tiles.”

Meekus chuckled, a slightly nasal sound.  “Oh, I always get them all mixed up too.  But  you still didn’t tell us who your master is.”

Anakin tried not to look nervous.  “I didn’t?”

Lohunas nodded.  “No, you didn’t.  I was wondering if my Uncle Gosk knew him.”

“Your Uncle Gosk?”  _Give it up Skywalker._

“Yeah,” Lohunas grinned proudly.  “He’s on Coruscant now, taking an advanced diplomacy seminar for knights and masters.  He was just knighted a few years ago.”  Several of the others rolled their eyes at yet another reminder of how wonderful it was that Uncle Gosk had been knighted.

Anakin gave in to the inevitable.  Reluctantly.  “Kwi-hack-jun,” he coughed.

The others looked at him in confusion.  “Come again?” asked Meekus. 

“Qui-Gon Jinn,” he relented quietly, waiting for the inevitable fallout.  For the incredulous stares and double takes as they tried to figure out why such a prestigious Jedi as Qui-Gon Jinn would choose a skinny worm of a padawan like him.  Only to be quickly followed by them figuring out why such a prestigious Jedi as Qui-Gon Jinn had _chosen_ this skinny worm.

“Qui-Gon Jinn?”

“You mean _that_ Master Jinn?”

Anakin winced at the all-too familiar questions.

“ _The_ Master Jinn?”

“You mean you have the same master as the Decimator?”  Goober shook visibly.  “And we thought our masters worked us hard.”

_What?_

“You poor thing,” Von crooned sympathetically.  _Sympathy?!_   “Does he really challenge the council over every possible decision?”

“Um,” Anakin looked at her, openly puzzled by this reaction.  “Just about.”

“I heard he once beat Master Windu and Master Koth in a three-way sabre match.”

“Yes,” Anakin almost grinned before remembering he was terrified.  “But they were both padawans then.”

“Padawans!” Jurdin snorted.  “Well that makes it a less interesting story!”  Several of the others laughed along with Ani’s still nervous chuckles, the lowering of his legendary master to a more human level drawing him further into the group.  He almost felt like they were his friends, like the friends he should have had among his regular classmates.  He felt almost . . like a normal teenager, whatever that was.  _Live in the moment Skywalker; enjoy it while it lasts._

It didn’t.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Elion gasped breathlessly.  “If Qui-Gon Jinn is your master . .”  Anakin’s stomach lurched and his breath caught in his throat.  “Then you must be Anakin Skywalker.”

Pale, Anakin Skywalker, Chosen One of the Force and All That Crap, fought the absurd urge to cry.

“So that’s what ‘Ani’ is short for?”  Scout asked. 

Blinking forcefully, Anakin turned to face her.  “Yes,” he spoke barely over a whisper.  “My mom always calls me that.”

The girl laughed and Anakin winced, waiting to feel the malice in it.  “That’s not so bad, my mom calls me ‘Scout.’”  Anakin stared at her, confused and she shrugged back at him.  “I don’t really care for it myself.  I’d rather be ‘Rodette’ or ‘Lisv’sar’ or something . . . less boring.”

Anakin continued to stare at her, suspicious, before carefully looking over the rest of the group.  They didn’t feel hostile.  Or intimidated.  Or supercilious.  “I don’t understand,” he said finally, not realizing he had opened his mouth until it was too late. 

Scout didn’t understand either.  “Well, ‘Scout’ is only my nickname.  Mum wanted to name me after someone in a book, but instead of one of those frilly fairy tales with lovely courtiers and good-hearted country girls, she took to calling me after a tomboy.”  Several of the group snorted at this.  “Well, it’s not like I’m not,” she conceded to the others.  “But she shouldn’t complain about it if she encouraged it and all.”  Anakin’s eyes widened.  He had wrapped his arms around himself defensively, still waiting for the blow to fall.  This lack of animosity was highly disturbing.  Scout looked back at him, somewhat concerned.  “Are you alright, Ani?”

The young padawan, accustomed to being an outsider, blinked slowly as he looked the group over.  It didn’t make sense.  It really didn’t make sense at all.  But he could think of no other explanation.  “You really don’t care, do you?”

Ohokto looked up at him, a bit startled as he had been pondering what to ask.  “Care about what?  And that’s not my question.”

“You don’t care who I am.”  _Oh, that sounded great Skywalker._   He tried again.  “I mean you aren’t upset.”  He shook his head.  “Every time I tell people who I am they get all excited and you all are not.”  He blushed bright red as he ran over what he had just said in his head.  “Um, I didn’t mean that to sound as pompous as it came out.”

Elion nodded, suddenly understanding what Ani had been talking about in the refresher.  “So you were worried we wouldn’t like you if we knew you were, . . you know, _the_ Anakin Skywalker.”

Anakin shrugged.  “Everyone else stops liking me when they find out.”  He sneaked a peek at his classmates, inadvertently looking up at Edan who was smirking at him again. 

“Pity,” the dark-haired boy said in a low tone, licking his lips.  “We’ll just have to keep you for ourselves.”  Somehow this did not make Anakin feel any better.

“No offense Ani, but to be honest, you’re just not that weird around here.  We’ve heard about you of course, but we hear a lot of poodoo from the other temples.  You’ll have to tell us what’s true or not.”  Scout began playing with her braid.  “Besides, we’re used to mungo big midi counts here.  With so many students here having one or both parents being Jedi, it’s kind of inevitable.”

Anakin nodded.  Maybe it wasn’t his imagination that the initiates here were a little _louder_ in the Force.

Jurdin leaned forward to throw in his two dactaries.  “It’s kind of annoying for us too.  I mean when you’re an initiate and you go to Coruscant, the first thing anyone asks you is who your parents are.  Some of us know, and some of us have no idea and were raised the same way they raise them on Coruscant.”  The Quetran snorted.  “Of course, with Jexin, sometimes I wish I was a normal anonymous Jedi sometimes.”  He looked at Anakin sharply.  “You’re leaving on tonight’s capital shuttle?” 

Anakin nodded, suddenly worried Jurdin was trying to get rid of him.  “Yes.”

The Quetran laughed again.  “You have no idea how amazingly lucky you are my friend.” 

Ohokto turned to Meekus.  “You satisfied, or can I ask my question?”  Meekus nodded and made some sort of phlegmy sound that seemed affirmative.  “Good.”

The young man drew himself up to straight in the chair and looked Anakin over with a serious expression.  Finally, he broke out into a grin.  “You’ve had enough hard questions.  What do you do for fun?”

“Fun?”  For all intents and purposes, it appeared that was that and the other padawans really didn’t have a problem with him or his midi-chlorians.  Finally indulging in a genuine smile, Ani began to talk animatedly about his droids, his attempts to build a modified speeder, his master’s attempts to discourage him, the countless gadgets he built to make his mother’s life easier, which somehow always made her work take twice as long anyway because she could never remember the commands, and his habit of using the Force to do mundanely simple things that were inevitably easier to do by normal means.  The others laughed, or rolled their eyes, either involved in such activities or overly subjected to them.  Ohokto in turn told him about his studies of historical weapons and sword techniques, and vaguely mentioned something called nerf-tipping.  Anakin wondered whether this was similar to bantha-tipping, albeit less dangerous.

Jurdin’s question was fairly easy too; the Quetran asked him what color his sabre crystal was and why.  Ani’s was blue, because the color reminded him of the deep lakes of Naboo.  He didn’t mention that this was important because it was Padme’s homeworld, or because her tunic had been blue the first day they had met or because his master’s eyes were blue and he had spent a lot of time on Naboo wishing they would open.  Because those were the other reasons he liked blue.  But growing up on a desert planet, he had been rather impressed by all the water on the first other planet he had ever visited.  Besides, his mother eyes were brown and brown was not a possible choice.  Jurdin’s sabre was an orange-yellow, almost like honey, or a clear rod of amber.  He admitted he chose that color, a bit embarrassingly, because it reminded him of the tea his mother always served and when he was young, it had felt like he could take a little bit of home with him on every mission.  Anakin couldn’t help smiling at that idea himself, wishing he had thought of it at that age.

Still laughing a bit, Anakin selected another mint, then turned to his last interrogator.  Edan grinned down at him and suddenly all the moisture in his mouth dried up like the Dune Sea, reappearing mysteriously, as if from an underground spring, to turn his palms into a massive oasis.  _Sith_.

Edan, for his part, seemed calm.  As per his habit, he was draped over the arm of the couch, his ever-present smile gracing his face, somewhere between a smirk and a leer.  He made a slow inspection of Anakin’s kneeling stance, his eyes resting a moment on the sash lying over the other padawan’s groin.  Ani resisted the urge to cover his already clothed self.  After another long moment, Edan’s gaze finished its leisurely stroll up to his face, and the dark-haired boy stared into Ani’s eyes.  Anakin gulped.  Edan blinked back, his eyes a deep green, his eyelashes long and black, almost feminine. 

Anakin mentally shook himself, wondering why in the Sith Hell he would have noticed that. 

After another long moment, Edan sipped at his water, licked his lips clear of any droplets, then dropped his well-crafted bombshell.  “So, Anakin,” he drawled, playing with the condensation on his glass before turning his eyes back to the other padawan who was suffering the sinking feeling that a sacrificial animal gets when it notices that the humans have their knives out, but there are no wolves in the area.  “You live on Coruscant, the center of the galaxy and pinnacle of social sophistication.” 

The sinking feeling grew.  _It’s not as if you know anybody.  Or anyone important.  Other than the Chancellor, but you only sort of know him._

“How many lovers have you had?”

For a moment, Anakin hoped it was possible to die of embarrassment.  Of course it didn’t happen but he hoped anyway.  His jaw had fallen open as the meaning of Edan’s question registered and now felt like it had kept falling and was at least several floors away.  His face alternately felt hot and cold, as if his blood couldn’t decide whether he should blush red until he burst a blood vessel or turn dead pale and faint.  Of course neither of those happened either. 

Struggling to close his mouth and work up some saliva to allow his tongue to move, he was vaguely aware of the sound of someone scooping up a large handful of puffed kernels and passing on the bowl.  He bit his tongue a bit harder than he meant to, but finally managed to work up enough moisture to speak.  _Too bad you have no idea what to say._

“Um . . . I . . I haven’t had any.”  He gulped, painfully swallowing the hard mint as Edan raised an eyebrow in disbelief.  “I’m only sixteen,” _okay Skywalker, that’s really not going to be a good enough reason, is it?_   “I’m not old enough.”  _Oh that was real convincing when he’s your age himself . . ._   He swallowed again, wondering why the intricate rules of the game didn’t have a get out of a question without censure opportunity and if his master was still contagious.  He took a deep breath.  This was ridiculous.  _If they don’t like you because you’re a virgin, well they can take it up with the Council._   “On Coruscant all junior padawans take an oath of celibacy until they are eightee—,”

“HEY!  What the!  OW!”  Anakin leaned back, amazed to see wave after wave of puffed kernels come flying through the air, not at him of all people, but at his interrogator.  Edan spluttered, trying to get a full sentence out, but whenever he opened his mouth, Sil and Meekus picked up another cloud of kernels from the floor with the Force and sent them winging toward his face.

“Alright!  Alright!” the dark-haired and now red-faced boy relented, climbing behind the couch and tossing a few kernels back at his attackers.  “I yield!”

Goober snorted.  “You do know you’ll be picking those up later, yes?”  Anakin could almost hear Edan’s eyes roll. 

“Yes, Gob’li-ong dear, I know.”  Peering around the couch, Edan looked over his classmates.  Sil, Scout and Von formed a whole couch of disapproval, while Melexi still chose to pretend he didn’t exist.  Considering the back-slapping Jurdin and Ohokto were giving Meekus, it didn’t seem like he’d be getting any support there either.

“Edan, do you have to do that to every new padawan we meet?” Lohunas glared at him.  “Or are you just forgetful of the answer every time?”

“Please don’t think we’re all morons, Ani.”  Scout’s tone was both hopeful and apologetic.  Anakin nodded at her and she joined her classmates in staring Edan down.  “It’s not as if the padawans _here_ on _Silva_ are not subject to the same padawan vows as _EVERY OTHER PADAWAN_ , is it, Edan ji Ovahni?”

Jurdin crossed his arms across his chest.  “Why do you even ask Edan?  It’s not like you don’t know the answer.”

Edan rolled his eyes again as he dug more puffed kernels out of the couch and settled back on his perch like a cat that has been caught landing on its rump and would rather pretend it hadn’t been jumping at all.  “It’s not important that I know the answer.  What is important is how they answer.  You can learn a lot about a person by what they will and will not admit to.”

Goober made a strange sound that Ani eventually interpreted as a laugh.  “Sorry Edan, but no one here is going to believe that line.  We’ve known you too long.”  The Ithorian turned his large head to Anakin.  “Please, ask away.  Just don’t try to embarrass him.  He’s shameless and your head will explode before you can think of a way to make him blush.”  Edan chose to ignore this last jibe, snatching a mint from the tin and making a show of savoring it.

Anakin looked down at his knees, wondering what to ask.  He hadn’t thought of any questions before, but then the only question he could think of had already been answered: why would Edan ask something like that?  With an internal shrug, he decided to go with his initial strategy.  “I suppose it’s only fair to ask you Edan, how many lovers have you had?”

Edan started in surprise, then looked Ani over with narrowed eyes.  “I suppose that depends on what you define as a lover,” he said at last.  Several of the other students groaned.

“He doesn’t define ‘lover,’ Ani.  He’s not interested in love,” Melexi twisted around in her chair, apparently competing with her classmate for provocative poses.  “Edan’s is a world of barely restrained lust.”  Jurdin snorted.  “Or lewdness,” Melexi conceded. 

The dark-haired boy eyed her narrowly before turning back to Anakin.  “I will concede that I’ve never had a lover in the purely intercourse sense, despite popular rumor.” 

Elion whooped loudly.  “So he admits it!”

Edan rolled his eyes.  “Yes Elion, as amazing as it is, someone as utterly desirable as myself is subjected to the same rules and regulations of junior padawanhood as the rest of you.  Just think of all those poor souls out there, missing out on enjoying . . well, me.”  This statement sent the other Silvan students into uproarious laughter.  Even Anakin was hard pressed not to snicker at the preposterousness of it all.

“So,” Anakin snorted a bit, but managed to keep a straight face.  “The answer is you’ve never had a lover, have you Edan?”

Edan froze, staring at Anakin as if he were some new puzzle to decipher.  Or something fanged and venomous.  One by one, the others turned toward the pair of them, waiting to see how far this would go.  After a long moment, Edan blinked, then relaxed back into his aloof posture.  “I concede,” he said at last, “that I have never had a lover, but I have had many . . near lovers.”

Several disbelieving snorts met this statement. 

“Near lovers?”  Melexi laughed openly.  “Did they say you were nearly desirable or did you just undress them with your eyes?”

Edan set his jaw and gave her a hard look, trying to formulate a suitably pithy response.  “At least I’ve been groped Melexi, which is more than I can say for you.”  Melexi gasped, outraged, but before she could reply, the dark-haired boy turned back to a wide-eyed Ani.  “Does that answer your question?”  

“Yes,” came the timid reply.

“We’re done!” shrieked Meekus, lunging for the table and the selectors.  “I’ll check who’s first!”

Edan, his composure smoothed and his pose languid once more, looked on with interest.  “Well Meekus, why don’t you share it with the rest of us?”

Meekus was too pre-occupied by anticipation to respond to the barb.  “I’ve got it,” he said, handing over the selectors to the newly chosen parties.  “It’s Elion and Lohunas!”

Elion’s eyes widened and he glanced over at the large Weequay female in the next overstuffed chair.  Lohunas drew herself up straight, suddenly proper and even more intimidating.  With her face of wrinkled leather, fit physique, and imposing height, a good head taller than even the teenaged boys around her, she reminded Ani of the strict old woman who taught grammar studies to the young slaves and poor settlers on Tattooine.  Not human, and not exactly . . . desirable.  Anakin supposed he should feel guilty for thinking such uncharitable thoughts, but at the same time he couldn’t help feeling grateful that he wasn’t Elion.

The selected boy’s head fins began to pink slightly, as did his cheeks.  Lohunas pretended not to notice, sipping at her water and biding her time.  After several moments, the others began shifting restlessly and the Weequay took charge.

“So what’s it going to be Elion?  You have a question?”

“Um, no.”  Elion gulped.  “Should I stand on a box?”

Lohunas snorted, then dried her gray-brown lips on a napkin.  “I think I can reach your face,” she replied, laying aside her drink.  Anakin stared back and forth at the pair of them, wondering if they would even kiss at all, and whether it this was a required ritual in the game and what the unspoken rules were.  Neither of the selected padawans seemed to be doing anything, other than talking.  Or stalling.

Suddenly, Elion flinched and the large Weequay erupted out of her chair to pounce on him, pushing him back into the cushions of his own.  With a loud and muffled cry, the smaller boy sank down, his arms coming up around her neck while his fins darkened to a dusky rose.  Anakin blinked at the suddenly bright color, the only part of Elion visible behind his larger partner, other than his arms.  For a moment, the Force seemed warmer, a simmering heat that Anakin tended to sense whenever his master met someone who would soon be sneaking out of their quarters in the wee hours.  Yes, it was like that, but it was different too.  A bit more . . energetic.  The flirtation and frenzy of youth. 

After several moments the kiss ended with an audible smack.  A loud gasp was heard, seemingly from Elion and Lohunas got to her feet and returned to her chair.  Both were quiet for a moment, the Weequay sipping again at her water, and smoothing her slightly askew hair, while Elion flopped against his chair back, rumpled, ruffled and spent.

“Good?”  Lohunas asked after a moment.

Still panting, Elion nodded.  “You’ve been practicing.”  Several classmates laughed and applauded.  With exaggerated weariness, the young man reached for the selector and activated it as his partner did the same.  The small devices beeped gaily while the rest of the group looked on.  Anakin held his breath, torn between wanting to try it next and dreading the possibility.   _You can always ask a question.  You don’t have to if you don’t want to._   “Scout,” Elion gasped at last.

_But what if you want to?_

“Melexi!”

Anakin nearly started in surprise.  He hadn’t expected the selectors to choose same sex partners.  Of course, this wasn’t the dark ages, but still, it was unexpected.  _Of course, they don’t have to kiss if they don’t want to Skywalker._

The two girls turned to each other, seeming to size each other up.  Melexi leaned close, closing her eyes until her face was a hands breadth from her partner’s.  Scout rolled her eyes.

“Yes Melexi, I did floss my teeth.” 

The green-haired girl opened her eyes.  “Yes, you did.  You have reached a satisfactory level of dental hygiene.” 

“Lucky me,” Scout replied, then turned to the group.  “If any of you were wondering, I have clean teeth and gums.”

“Of course you do,” Edan laughed.  “You’re perfect.”  Scout grinned maniacally, showing off her very pearly whites and the others chuckled.

Melexi cleared her throat delicately and all eyes turned to her.  She was kneeling in her chair, leaning such that her tunic gapped forward.  Anakin tried not to gawk as he realized she had removed her undertunic entirely sometime before the game.  _Wow._   Apparently there were a lot of Jedi here on Silva with rather nice chests.  _And some will even show them off._   When all attention was focused on her, she smirked, then spoke in a clear, low voice.

“So tell me Scout, what is it you want?”

Anakin blinked, unsure what to make of all this.  Was this part of the game?  Did Melexi want to kiss Scout?  _Does she want her more than you do?_   Or did Melexi only pretend to want Knight Kenobi?  Was that the joke?

Scout looked Melexi up and down, pausing at her chest with a bemused expression.  Anakin wondered if they would kiss. 

And why he was looking forward to it.

“Alright Melexi, I’ll tell you what I want,” Scout replied, inching closer.  Melexi looked into her eyes, then fluttered her eyelashes.  Anakin was torn between rolling his eyes at the antics and watching more closely.  Scout leaned down, her forehead almost touching the other padawan’s, then tugged on her partner’s green-streaked braid teasingly.  “I want to know why you always have to check my teeth!”  

The girls pulled apart with a shriek as Scout gave the braid a harder tug before dissolving into giggles.  After a few moments Melexi settled back into an upright position, to the disappointment of several spectators and gave her answer.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged as she set her collar to rights.  “I just . . it’s gross when you think about all the stuff people put in their mouths.  And shut up Edan,” she hissed when the dark-haired boy moved to comment.  “I’m just very particular about it.  It’s a quirk of mine.”  When some of the others grinned at her, she pulled her knees up into a somewhat defensive posture.  “I just feel that if I respect my partner enough to be clean, they should show me the same respect.” 

Scout nodded.  “Fair enough,” she conceded.  “But you already know most of us well enough that you shouldn’t have to check.  We all know what you’ll do if you find anything.”

“True, but I’d rather not find it with my tongue.”  Melexi sighed, as if she felt this turn had been wasted as she already knew her classmates fairly well.  “I really can’t think of a question to ask you right now,” she said at last. 

“Do I bore you Melexi?”  Scout asked, disbelief on her face.  The other girl muttered something that sounded like ‘no’ and leaned back in her chair.  Melexi reached for the selectors and Ani suddenly wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.  Scout narrowed her eyes.  “I think I do Melexi.” 

The green-haired girl looked up at her.  “What?”

“I’ll just have to kiss it better,” the blond replied, suddenly grasping Melexi’s chin and gently pressing their lips together.  The kiss was shorter than the last one, but more gentle than overwhelming.  Melexi closed her eyes and leaned into it, a sweet humming noise in her throat, as Scout gave her an almost polite nibbling, then kissed her on the cheek before moving away.  Eyes still closed, Melexi gave a soft sigh, before settling back down.  Anakin blinked, titillated, but somewhat disturbed. 

_Was everyone on this planet a homosexual?_

“Nice.”

“Good sneak attack there, Scout.”  Goober made a tooting noise through both mouths, like a fanfare at a podrace. 

“See,” Scout smirked, still alluringly cute.  “I’m not entirely hopeless.”

Von patted her knee.  “We never said you were.  Now stop holding up the game, some of the rest of us want a little action.”  Anakin forced his eyes away from Scout’s slightly reddened lips as she activated the selector.  Part of him had wanted to be the one to give her a little color, but it didn’t look like that was going to be a possibility.  Elion had said that she had liked him just fine, but apparently he didn’t mean she liked him the way Edan liked him.  The way he didn’t like Edan.  Not that he liked him much any way.

His prospects were getting slim.

Once more the selectors played their giddy tune, this time a little less cheery to Anakin’s ears.  “Von, you’re up.” 

“Ooh!”  Von gave Scout a smirk and rubbed her hands together, then turned to Melexi, whose selector gave a final beep. 

Melexi raised a speculative eyebrow as she passed the selector on.  “Meekus!”

Meekus turned to Von, his gaze suddenly bleak.  “What’s your blood type?”

For her part, Von looked disappointed.  “B negative.  Sorry Meekus.”  The smaller boy sagged. 

Anakin looked on in confusion.  “Is that bad?” he asked, barely aware he had spoken aloud.

“No, not bad, exactly.”  Meekus sighed, flopping against the couch.  “I’m just allergic to some humans.”  Anakin’s eyebrows fled toward his hairline.  “I can’t kiss humans with B blood or AB blood.  It gives me a rash.”

“Oh.”  Anakin began to hope he would emerge from the game unscathed.  Who cared what the Sith the hose was if you might break out into hives.  Or worse.  _What about anaphylactic shock?_

“Well,” Von began, disappointed.  “I suppose I could ask you something.”

“I suppose we could try for a sub,” Meekus began, uncertain. 

Von’s eyes lit up.  “Sub!  Sub!”

The others began to join her chant.  “Sub!  Sub!  Sub!  Sub!”

Anakin leaned over to Sil, confused.  “Sub?”  Laughing, Sil tried to talk over the noise as Von and Meekus placed their selectors tip to tip and the devices began blinking and beeping in tandem.  _Machine kissing?_

“A sub is just a substitute.  We’re not into weird dominance games here.”  Anakin blanched at the thought and Sil made a face.  “Since Von and Meekus can’t kiss, they are trying to get the selectors to choose a sub.  If the selectors choose someone they both can kiss, they battle for the lucky player.  If not, then the next pair is chosen.”

“Battle?” Anakin asked, still wary of these new rules and conventions not covered beforehand.

“GOOBER!” 

The Ithorian looked less than thrilled.  Meekus and Von looked at each other.

“I have no problem kissing Goober.”

“Me neither.”

Gob’li-ong sighed musically.  “Do I get a vote?”

“Not really,” Meekus chortled.  “You only get to decide if you are willing to kiss whichever one of us wins your hand.”

Goober gave another martyr’s sigh.  “Whatever.  Go off with thee and play your Rock Paper Scissors.  I await the winner.”  He put his forearm across his large head and closed his bulging eyes.  “I will sacrifice my virtue for the good of the game.”  The Ithorian flopped over dramatically, his head striking the floor with a satisfactory thud.

With a smirk and a smile, Von and Meekus separated the selectors and set them going again, then walked off to the kitchen to do battle in private.  Anakin watched them go until another giddy beep brought his attention back to the game.

“Sil and Ani.”

For a moment, time stopped, and Ani sent thanks to the Force.  Sil was a girl.  Not a blond, bubbly (and apparently lesbian) girl like Scout, but most definitely not a boy.  He turned to face her, his mouth suddenly dry and his palms suddenly sweaty.  She smiled at him, her silky dark hair framing her face, her dark almond eyes staring shyly into his own. 

 

“I never kissed the Chosen One before.”  Her eyes danced, a friendly tease instead of the cruel taunts he had expected.

“Um,” Anakin blushed.  “I’ve never kissed anyone before who wasn’t my mom.”  His heart began to beat faster and he hoped desperately he wasn’t the type of hormonal teenage boy who got hard just from a kiss.  Jedi robes could only hide so much.

“Hey, what are we, chopped liver?”  Ohokto called from across the room.

“No,” retorted Melexi.  “We’re used goods.”

Sil leaned toward Ani over the armrest, beckoning him with a crooked finger.  “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”  Her smile was warm, welcoming.  Everything his fellow padawans on Coruscant weren’t.  He slipped off his floor cushion and slid over to her along the floor, visibly nervous. 

The other padawans didn’t say a word.

When he was finally in range, Sil leaned down, taking a moment to look him in the eye.  He stared back, startled as his senses,  both normal and Force-governed, filled his mind with her.  He took in her scent, a floral soap or perfume, the sight of her smooth skin and expressive eyes, the heat of her skin, the flutter of her pulse just above her collarbone.  She moved toward him, seemingly in slow motion and just before their lips touched, he heard her thoughts, clear as day.

_I’m not Scout but I think you’re pretty cute._

And she kissed him.

Her mouth was warm and soft, and he tried to move his own against hers, but felt rather the clumsy fool, not sure where to put his hands much less his lips.  After a long moment, she pulled away, leaving him tingling.

And not hard, thank the Force.

She smiled at him as she sat bag.  _Not bad for a Kiss Virgin._

Ani let out a breath and slid back to his floor cushion.

“Not bad Ani, you don’t drool.”

He blushed furiously, but mingled with the embarrassment was both relief and warm pleasure as he relived the brief kiss over and over. 

He, Anakin Skywalker, Chosen Scum of the Force, had just kissed a girl.  On the lips.  Without embarrassing himself.  And the whole universe didn’t come to an end.

It was a momentous day.

Meekus and Von re-entered the room, wearing neutral expressions.  Goober looked up at them, vaguely interested.

“So is the new guy a good kisser?” Von asked, non-chalantly.

Sil grinned at Ani, before answering.  “He’s not bad,” she replied as she activated the selectors.  Ani grinned again, not even noticing Edan’s appraising eye as he did the same.

Meekus sat back down on the floor, and Von settled on the couch.  Goober looked from one to the other, his expression warring between cool indifference and outraged impatience. 

Sil glanced at her selector, then Ani’s, he eyes wide with dismay.

“So whose next?” Meekus asked, eager to continue.

Ani looked down at his selector, “Me—”

“Now wait just a minute!” Goober trilled out of both mouths.  “I was supposed to be kissed by someone.  I was the sub.  I live here, it’s my den and _someone here is_ _going to kiss me!”_

“I thought you didn’t like ‘Kiss and Tell,’ Goober,” Von’s voice was teasing as she walked over to the Ithorian, batting her eyelashes dramatically.

“I hoped we could play something else at someone else’s house.  I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

“Good,” said Meekus, smiling.  “Because we thought you could use a reward.”  And with that, both Meekus and Von pounced, each taking charge of one of the Ithorian’s mouths. 

Anakin looked on with interest as Goober fell over backward, his suitors following both sets of lips to the floor.  He had always wondered how Ithorians made out with non-Ithorians but had never quite worked up the nerve to ask.

Laughing, Von and Meekus sat up, slapped hands in triumph, and returned to their seats, leaving Goober panting on the floor.

Master Helm called from the next room.  “You don’t need the hose in there, do you Gob’li-ong?”

“No!  I’m fine!”  Goober sat up, staring at Von, then Meekus, then back again.  “You two are wild.”

“Yup,” Von grinned as she turned to Ani and Sil.  “I think we’re ready now.”

“No, we’re not,” Sil sighed.

Ani looked up from his selector.  “Melexi.”

Sil rolled her eyes.  “And Edan.”

Melexi turned to glare at the lustful, dark-haired boy who merely raised an eyebrow. 

“As if!”

Edan looked back, mildly perturbed.  “You don’t even want to ask me anything?”

“Bite me!”

Edan shrugged, then flicked his finger to Force-activate the selector still clutched in Ani’s hand.  Ani hurriedly put it back on the table.  Sil activated the other.

“Not even about seeing Kenobi’s naked butt?”

Melexi turned suddenly, inspired delight in her eyes, her mouth open to speak.  The selectors beeped.

“Too late.”  Edan shrugged, still grinning as he looked over the selectors.  Melexi paled, her hands fisting with cold outrage.

“You ASS!”

“Tut, tut.  All’s fair in love and war, Melexi.  And look at that, against the odds, I get to play again.”  He looked down at Ani, who blanched noticeably.  “With Jurdin.”

Anakin sagged in relief while Edan smirked, almost laughing as he turned to the Quetran.

“Come, my four-armed wonder.  Embrace me with your wandering hands.”

Jurdin crossed one set of arms in front of him and held the other set over his head.  “Only if I get to restrain your wandering hands.”

Edan’s eye’s twinkled.  “Fair enough.”  He surrendered, allowing Jurdin to hold his wrists over their heads, then leaned in and tilted his head, as cool and well rehearsed as a holo-star. 

Ani watched, strangely fascinated, by a kiss that was the polar opposite of his own.  Edan, almost aggressively, plundered the Quetran’s mouth, using not just his lips, but his tongue as well, which Jurdin received with wide-eyed pleasure.  Four arms remained aloft, but the Quetran’s other two had pulled Edan close, chest to chest, and just as Jurdin groaned, almost losing control, the dark-haired boy pulled away. 

Ani wondered what it felt like.  Not that he wanted Edan to kiss him of course, but it might be nice if _someone_ put their tongue in his mouth.  Maybe.  When he was ready.

“I’ve always said four arms are better than two.”

“Whew,” Jurdin sighed, releasing him.  “I swear, Edan, if you weren’t such an egotistical bantha’s ass, my chastity vows would be in serious jeopardy.”

Edan shrugged.  “We all have our redeeming qualities.”  The selectors beeped.  “Ohokto, Scout, you’re up.”

“Cool!”  Scout bounded up from the couch, hopped over the table, and plopped down next to Ohokto, a hand on his knee.  “Kiss me, oh fair and powerful Padawan!”

Ani’s eyes boggled as the thus far mild-mannered Ohokto caught Scout in a dramatic embrace and kissed her, almost as deeply as Edan, his hands free to wander down her back and up to her neck.  She murmured against his lips and Anakin tensed at the sound, but it was a good tension.

Apparently Scout wasn’t nearly as homosexual as he had thought. 

Suddenly this game was a lot more interesting.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter also contains explicit dream sequences. Though Obi-Wan is referred to as a boy or youth in some flashbacks, he is of age, just young.

* * *

 

The wind sighed in the corners of the bungalow, but it was more a sound of relaxation than of tension.  The sun was setting, the farmers were leaving the fields and the dayflowers and songbirds were settling in for the evening as the nocturnal creatures welcomed the coming night.  The day was ending, and solitary labors with it.  Even for the Jedi, outdoor activities were drawing to a close in favor of familial and fraternal comforts inside. 

Children still in the crèche scurried to the refresher, the day’s worries washing away in happy anticipation of dinner.  The padawans, their classes and exercises done, organized their studies and attended to their chores.  Parents and masters took in reports of their charges’ day over meal preparations or shared meditation.  As happened most evenings at the Silvan temple, the Force of many content beings glowed like dozens of hearth fires, comforting those around them as they spread the glow.

For most of the temple, evenings were for togetherness.  Solitary activities could wait for full night.  As the sun went down and the stars came out, families, by blood or bond, reconnected.  Parents and children.  Sisters and brothers.  Masters and padawans.

But in one small, east-facing room, dim with the coming night, a man sat alone, meditating.

He sat on a woven mat, one leg crossed over the other, his dark robe pooled around him.  He had settled down just as the sun touched to the horizon, and he had made no move since beyond slow, even breathing.  It seemed almost unnatural, so great was the man’s ability to hold his position.

Aeris despaired of ever learning how to hold that still. 

Peeking in the doorway, the small boy wondered if his own restlessness would prevent him from becoming a knight, and if he would have to join the Agri-Corp instead.  Not that that was such a terrible thing.  He liked plants.  Particularly since they didn’t complain if he wiggled during meditation.  But a Jedi knight helped people.  Like his wem helped people.  A farmer fed people, but it wasn’t quite the same. 

He would just have to try harder.

His wem had told him to do his best, and that would be good enough.  Wem would love him just as much, whether he was a farmer or a knight.  But Master Yoda had told him there is no try, and as much as he loved the plants, he still wanted to ‘do’.

His eyes had wandered with his thoughts, and when he turned to peek again, he found his quarry was looking at him, smiling faintly.

“How did you know I was here?” Aeris asked softly.  He didn’t think he had made a sound, but he wasn’t particularly good at keeping silent either.  Quiet he could be, but silent was more difficult. 

Obi-Wan’s face became more solemn.  “You are very bright.”

Aeris frowned. “But you had your eyes closed.”

He held up his hand, beckoning the child forward.  “I meant in the Force.”

“Oh.”  Aeris walked into the room, then knelt down in front of his elder.  “Your face is more yellow now.”

Obi-Wan grimaced slightly.  “That means it’s getting better.  It might turn a few more colors before it gets back to normal.”

“Does it still hurt?”  Aeris unconsciously rubbed his own eye in sympathy.

“Only when I touch it.  Or when I sneeze.”

They were both quiet for a long moment.

“Why did he hit you?”

Obi-Wan looked down at the floor and sighed, then shifted his legs, moving the left one out straight in front of him, and opening his arms.  Aeris crawled over to sit on his other leg and leaned back against his chest.  Only when the boy was snug and secure against his chest, did he continue to speak.

“We had a misunderstanding.  He didn’t agree with some decisions he thought I had made.”

The boy was sat quietly in thought for several moments.  “Was he angry because of me?” he whispered apprehensively.

Obi-Wan curled inward, tucking the child firmly beneath his chin.  “No,” he said firmly.  “He was angry at me and he would have been angry at me whether he had met you or not.  Some of the decisions had to do with you and some of them did not, but he was angry at _me_ , not you.  This was not your fault.  Do you understand that this was not your fault?”

Aeris nodded, not entirely convinced.  “But he got mad when he saw me.”

Obi-Wan blinked suspiciously.  “Sunbeam, he was angry at me long before he saw you.  He has been angry with me for a long time.”  He stroked the boy’s head, ruffling his fingers through his hair.  “You just reminded him of me, that’s all.”

“Oh.”  The child hesitated.  “Did you do something bad?”

“I did what I had to do, Sunbeam.”

_I will do what I must, Obi-Wan._

Obi-Wan shuddered slightly as he hugged the boy tightly.  “I did something that hurt him badly.  I didn’t want to hurt him, but sometimes the Force doesn’t give you a choice that won’t hurt someone.  Sometimes . . . sometimes you just have to choose to hurt as few people as possible, knowing you can’t keep from hurting all of them.”

“But you never hurt anybody.  How did you hurt him?”

“Oh, Aeris,” he loosened his arms and the boy turned in his arms, cuddling against him, ear to his chest, listening for his heart beat.  “I’m only human, Sunbeam.  I’ve hurt people before.  I’ve even hurt you without meaning to or wanting to.  No one is perfect.”  He grew still for a moment.  “I kept something from him.  Something I had no right to keep from him.  He was not wrong to be angry at me, but he was not angry for the right reasons.”

The boy clung tightly.  Aeris loved to sit like this, even if they sometimes talked about sad things.  But his elder was sad too much, even when he tried not to be.

“Ani said he was angry because my parents weren’t married.  And . . . and he yelled at you about my father.  When I have to go to Coruscant, will everyone there be angry about it too?”

Obi-Wan tried to laugh reassuringly, but he choked on the sound.  “No,” he said at last, clearing his throat.  “Not everyone.  Some people will disapprove.  Some will probably say cruel things, and I’m sorry I won’t be able to stop that.  I wish I could say it won’t happen, but it almost certainly will.  And none of that will be your fault.  But there will be some people who won’t mind, and some people who will see how wonderful you are, no matter who your parents are.”

Aeris frowned.  “How do you know?  You said you can only see the ‘Maybe Future.’”

Obi-Wan chuckle was genuine this time.  “You don’t trust ‘Crazy Old Obi-Wan?’”

“I think you are _byste_.”

“ _Byste?”_   Obi-Wan frowned, puzzled.

“You say it all the time.”

“ _Byste, byste,”_ he tasted the word again.  “‘I think you are _by—_ _biased!_ ”  He laughed outright this time.  “You think I only think your wonderful because you look so much like me.  Of course, I can’t possibly know what I’m talking about.”  He tickled the boy between the ribs and Aeris squirmed.  “Bi-ased.  Two syllables.  To have a bias or to not be able to make a fair assessment because of prejudice.”  Aeris frowned up at him, not comprehending.  “I think you’re so wonderful because I love you.”

“Right.  _Byste._ ”  The boy snuggled close again.

“Bi-ased.”

“That’s not how you usually say it.”

Obi-Wan shrugged.  “Well, I’m weird.”

“You’re not weird,” Aeris giggled.  “You’re just different.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, less painfully this time.  “And you’re probably _byste_ as you put it.”

Aeris giggled his agreement before growing serious again.

“Jexin is going to Coruscant next year too.” 

“He was very sick last year.  He needs to catch up on his lessons.”

Aeris nodded against his chest.  “Jexin said he’s going to get a master the first week when he gets there because everyone knows his father.”

Obi-Wan sighed deeply.  “That almost certainly won’t happen Aeris.  All students need time to adjust to Coruscant before they are ready to be padawans, no matter who their fathers are.  Most initiates don’t know who their parents are.”

Aeris looked up at him, afraid to ask.  “So someone might still pick me, even if I don’t know who my father is?”

For a moment, Obi-Wan looked inconsolable, but after a moment, he was able to put on a brave front.  “Aeris, you know I can’t tell you who your father is until you are older.”

The boy nodded, ducking his head in shame for bringing up the obviously painful subject.  Obi-Wan carefully lifted his chin until the child looked him in the eye. 

“And I know that some people who are too . . . stubborn to see will misjudge you for something that is in no way your fault, and it grieves me that you have to pay for the mistakes of your parents, but I promise you that if you choose the Jedi path, you will be a Jedi and you will be chosen.”

“Because some people won’t care who my father is?”

“No,” Obi-Wan laughed ruefully, the sound being the only way he could prevent a sob.  “Because some people will take one look at you and know exactly who your father is.”

Aeris looked up at his elder keenly.  Obi-Wan had never told him this before.

“My father . . . is a Jedi?” he asked, cautiously.

“Yes, Aeris,” Obi-Wan conceded, reluctantly.

“Is he strong in the Force?”

“Very.”  The word was whispered, as if in fear of saying too much.

Aeris hesitated; Obi-Wan was not usually this open about his parentage and this chance might not come again. 

“Is he as good with a lightsabre as you are?”

As Obi-Wan stared into his solemn, earnest face, contemplating his answer, the smoke alarm went off.

Loudly.

Obi-Wan burst out laughing, loud, deep laughs that sucked the air from his lungs.  Aeris looked up at him, hard-pressed not to join in and forget his question.  Memeris cursed in the kitchen and the alarm stopped.  The smell of scorched bread wafted across the common room.  Obi-Wan stood, stretched, then picked Aeris up and held him up to eye level.

“I promise Sunbeam, your father is a _much_ better swordsman than I am.”

“No!”

Obi-Wan looked bemused.  “Yes.”

Aeris shook his head in denial.  “No.  You’re the best.  He can’t be much better.”

Obi-Wan began to carry him to the kitchen.  “I assure you Aeris, this is so.”

“Nope!  Can’t be.  And how can I look like him?  Everyone says I look like you!”

“The Force is mysterious, Sunbeam.”

Aeris rolled his eyes.

“And they’re _byste._ ”

The boy laughed outright.  “You are weird.”

“Crazy Old Obi-Wan.”

Memeris looked them over, glad the serious talk and gloom seemed to be over for the evening. 

“Crazy like a fox.”

 

* * *

 

Grumbling, Qui-Gon shifted position again, trying to get comfortable on the couch.  Not that he was lying on an uncomfortable couch; it just wasn’t _his_ couch.  This couch was short, firm and practically new.  Unlived in, or rather _on_ , as a guest couch should be.  Much better suited to hosting a weak-limbed ambassador than an almost recovered Jedi Master was feeling desperately out of place in these unfamiliar surroundings.

He sneezed again, but it was a small one.  His mucous membranes were returning to normal.

In the distance, the bells announced dinner hour.  Ani would be back soon, and in a few hours they would be gone.  He wasn’t certain whether his discomfort was caused by how long he had been stuck here or that he was actually leaving.

I didn’t want it ending like this.

He laughed ruefully and pulled the blanket more tightly across his shoulders.  _Ending like this?  This was over a long time ago._

Shivering, but less now than he had this morning, he sipped at his lukewarm tea and huddled against the too-hard couch.  It had been over a long time ago, and the Jedi in him should have quietly accepted that by now, even though the spurned lover in him had obviously allowed his feelings to fester.  But in some ways, he supposed, the horrible encounter the night before had been necessary.  The boil was lanced and the noxious contents had leeched away.

He just couldn’t tell if the cure hurt more than the disease.

Yawning, he put down his tea, unconsciously scowling.  He had been napping on and off all day since his rather unwelcome nightmare, and his dreams had been equally vivid, if less bizarre since.  After the first three he had scrounged around for his datapad, only vaguely relieved to discover that yes, intense dreams and visions were indeed a possible side effect of his medications and they were temporary and not a sign of madness.

 _So much for a temporary insanity plea_.

He really should plan on saying something about it.  No doubt he would be called before the Council, for this whole fiasco or something else, but surely they would ask about it.  While Yoda might be able to deflect the charges, Windu always seemed to be on the lookout for something to harass him over.

Not that he had ever figured out what the Sith Mace had against him.  They had often disagreed in their councilor/knight dealings, but in recent years Mace had been more . . . irritatingly rigid.  As if Qui-Gon had done something to especially piss him off.

He had no idea what particular transgression had broken the bantha’s back, but he didn’t need the Force to tell him Windu was going to have a field day with this. 

Grumbling as his sinus-induced headache flared again, Qui-Gon hunkered lower on the couch and closed his eyes, resigned to the fragmented images and stark memories that haunted his slightly drugged sleep.

 _Damn medications_.  He was a Jedi.  He was supposed to be above such mind-altering interventions into his health. 

His eyes closed, and despite the lingering tension, he rapidly fell into yet another fitful sleep, almost against his will.

A warm hand rubbed along his back, while its partner in crime cautiously entered him, the bashful intruder far more nervous than he was, even in this vulnerable state.

‘Deeper, Obi-Wan!  Use both fingers!’ 

‘Won’t that hurt you?’

He fought a wicked grin as he raised his head and stared seductively at the rather jittery bundle of nerves that was his padawan.  The young man gulped, even as his penis began to fill as their eyes met.

He did prefer it a bit rougher than this, but Obi-Wan had enough performance anxiety already.  Sex in general was still somewhat new for them, regardless of the new position.  While he hoped Obi-Wan would take a more aggressive role, his partner was not quite ready for that.  “Safety before satisfaction” had always been his mantra.

He smiled reassuringly.  ‘No, Obi-Wan, you won’t hurt me.  As you get more experienced, you will also be able to relax yourself more quickly.’  He lowered his head again.  ‘I trust you, Obi-Wan.’

Two warm fingers, slow and gentle.  He sighed.  Obi-Wan radiated relief, mixed with growing arousal and confidence.  Slow, tentative movements, then radiant bliss.  He shuddered, fighting back moans as his young lover contented himself with a thorough exploration. 

‘Is this right, Ma— is this alright?’

Still tentative, but Obi-Wan’s confidence was building. 

‘Y-yes, Obi-Wan.’  His control was beginning to crumble.  ‘Deeper!  Faster!’

Less cautious this time, his lover complied, and the sensations and the knowledge of exactly who caused them forced out the deep groans he struggled to suppress.  The sounds excited them further and as preparation was drawn out into an intense sexual act in its own right, he bit back the impulse to demand Obi-Wan put those fingers to better use on his near-painful erection and prod him with something a little thicker instead.  He didn’t want his young lover to take it as criticism, and it was in fact a testament to his attention and skill that he had already driven his master quite wild this early in the evening. 

And surely Obi-Wan would soon get quite bored with just having his fingers up his master’s ass.  If it felt this good, his partner should be getting something out of it by now.

Of its own volition, the warm hand on his back slid down to his belly, not quite where he wanted it, but the still tentative caress sent shudders through him, the fingers outside and inside, working together in a strange harmony of touch.  So good, but he needed more than just hands, he needed arms wrapped around him, sweat and strain, gasps and moans that weren’t just his own.

Not to mention some cock.  Why the hell wouldn’t the damned boy give him some cock already?

‘Are you going to get looser, or do you need another finger?’

He froze.  Deeply involved in an act of sexual penetration and his padawan was asking about the condition of his anus in exactly the same tone he used when asking if he preferred his underwear be washed with fabric softener.  Steeling himself, he slowly turned his head to gaze at his apparently unaroused lover.

Obi-Wan turned away from his glare, blushing as if ashamed.  

‘I’m sorry, that was terribly rude of me.  You felt really tight but when you started groaning, I thought . . .’  The crease of concentration between his eyes deepened, and he looked down, squirming in embarrassment.  Qui-Gon followed his gaze down to his lover’s erection, engorged and leaking.  He squirmed again and suddenly Qui-Gon caught the odd rhythm of his breathing.  It was the same advanced control technique he used during intense situations, when adrenaline was flowing but one wrong move could spell death. 

Or in this case, premature ejaculation.

The boy was ready to burst.

Another deep breath, and Obi-Wan’s free hand moved to stroke his buttocks apologetically.  ‘I’m sorry, we’ll just keep going and you tell me when you’re ready for more.’  Deep breath.  ‘You sounded like you were enjoying this.  Please don’t let my impatience spoil that.’  More tentative than before, the fingers resumed their slow torture as mortified arousal trickled past Obi-Wan’s mental façade. 

Clearly, communication was something to work on.

‘Force, Obi-Wan, I was ready ten minutes ago!’

Obi-Wan started, inadvertently jerking his fingers and Qui-Gon bit back a groan. 

‘Why didn’t you say so?’ 

He could feel Obi-Wan bristling with indignation, but after a moment, his tone changed to one of hilarity.

‘What, did you expect me to be psychic or something?’  He burst out laughing, half-falling against his master’s backside.  Qui-Gon sputtered beneath him.

‘Well, _Padawan_ , your midi-chlorian count did indicate you should have a smattering of psychic ability, yes.’  He was rather impressed with himself for managing to say so without his voice cracking.  Obi-Wan buried his face into his master’s back and howled. 

‘Ha ha, yes _Master_ , and your diplomatic profile did indicate that you worked well with others and had sufficient communication skills to say “get on with it” when matters grew tense.’

He couldn’t help but chuckle then, and as he shifted, Obi-Wan’s penis brushed against his thigh, pre-ejaculate leaving a shivering trail behind.  The momentary hilarity had pulled them back from the brink, but both were still quite hard and ready.  After a moment, Obi-Wan caught his breath.

‘Well now that that’s settled, I’m an insensitive twit and you are prone to mute silence, perhaps we should get back to the matter at hand.  Or, in your case, at anus.’

‘To be frank, Obi-Wan,’

‘Please do.’

‘I’d prefer it be a matter at penis right now, thank you.’

‘Yours or mine?’ 

His maddening lover had moved to stare at his penis, stroking it carefully.  He had yet to touch his own.

‘Yours in mine!’

Obi-Wan burst out laughing again.  ‘My penis in your penis?  Oh, you’ll have to teach me that technique sometime.  Or is it that your grammar slips when you are inadvertently teased?’  Carefully, the fingers withdrew and his scrupulously hygienic padawan wiped them clean.  Qui-Gon sighed with relief when his lover reached for the lubricant first, instead of a condom.  They had had all their tests and had reached that level of trust where such was no longer necessary.  Besides, he didn’t want anything between them the first time Obi-Wan took him.  Behind him, he could hear Obi-Wan spreading the gel, grunting to maintain control. 

‘Ma-Qui-Gon?’  His tone grew serious.  ‘Are you sure this won’t hurt you?’

He pulled his lover’s hand to his own shaft, biting back a moan as the gel-slick hand squeezed.  ‘Did I hurt you, Love?’

‘No.’  He could hear the smile in the voice.

‘Well then, get on with it.’

Obi-Wan laughed again, but Qui-Gon was too busy focusing on the hot flesh slowly sinking in to notice.  Though smaller than his own organ, Obi-Wan’s erection felt enormous, filling a hollow lust that had echoed in him for almost a year now. 

‘Force!  It’s tight!’  Obi-Wan gasped behind him, overwhelmed.  ‘This has to hurt—’

He pushed back, taking Obi-Wan in fully.  ‘Move faster, Obi-Wan.  Faster!’

The pleasure began to fade as the lights in the room rose to a harsh glare.

‘Faster, Padawan!  Faster!  If I were a Sith on your tail, your heart would be roasted for my supper now.’  Lightsabres blurred, ever faster.

‘I’m trying Master Dooku, but I can’t go as fast as you.’

‘There is no try, Qui-Gon.’  A bright flash of harsh yellow light and he was on his back, his master’s sabre at his neck.  ‘Come, Padawan, you’ll have to be quicker than that.’

Grimacing as the bright yellow sabre was withdrawn, he grasped the offered hand and pulled his gangly, fifteen-year-old self up.  His eyes rolled up to glare at a singed cowlick.  His master followed his gaze.

‘Haircut tonight, Padawan, and not with my sabre this time.’

‘Yes, Master.’

They left the training gym for their quarters.  Shower, dinner, study, meditation, bed.  The strict routine of a Jedi in training.  And a Jedi was always in training. 

‘Are you going out tonight, Master?’

Dooku raised a supercilious eyebrow.  ‘My going out, whether I do or not, affects you how, Padawan?’

Qui-Gon failed to hide his blush.  ‘Okojee and I have a music history exam to study for.  I was hoping to study in our quarters because we can’t talk in the library.’

‘Yes, and you also can’t examine each other’s tonsils with your tongues in the library.’

Qui-Gon turned scarlet.  ‘Okojee has a girlfriend, Master.’

‘Yet that has failed to stop you from staring at Padawan Koff’s ass, hasn’t it?’

‘Master, we’re only going to study.’

Dooku let out the long-suffering sigh of the teenager-damned.

‘Padawan, your unrequited lust, Koff, is going to study.  What you are going to do remains to be seen.’

‘Master, I’m not going to do anything or break my vows.’

‘I’m not talking about failing your vows, Padawan, I’m talking about failing your duty.  Are you truly going to study or are you going to sit there over your research all night, dreaming about Padawan Koff’s attributes?’

‘No, Master.’ 

Dooku looked him in the eye, coldly.  ‘You had better live up to that answer, Padawan.’  He sighed again, but the coldness drifted away.  ‘I know it is difficult, but you cannot let your feelings get in the way of your duty.  You are a Jedi first, in all things, not the least of which is your sex life, as limited as that is at your age.’

‘Yes, Master.’  He paused a long moment.  ‘I won’t let my hormones get the better of me, Master.  May we work here?’

‘You may work here.  Koff may also work here, provided that doesn’t stop you both from working.’

‘I won’t let either you or Okojee down, Master.’

‘Remember you have a duty to him, not just to yourself.  Never settle for a partner, in work or sex, who puts pleasure before duty, Padawan.  You are a Jedi, and such would only end badly.’

‘And if I put duty first, over pleasure and emotion, I will be spared pain?’

The master stared at his padawan, as if despairing the boy would ever develop his common sense.

‘For one who will not give up emotion, pain is a fact of life.’  Dooku turned to leave him to his chores.  ‘Putting duty first spares you embarrassment.’

Qui-Gon sighed.  ‘Yes, master.’

With care, he watered the few succulents and hardy houseplants his master let him keep.  The sun set, throwing the room into shadows that grew ever darker as the plants before him reached toward the ceiling, growing taller, broader, leafier, until they canopied just above his head.

Or below his head if he had been standing upright.

‘Hrrrmm, too tall you are getting for my quarters.  Stop growing you must.’

‘Master Yoda, I stopped growing quite a while ago.’

‘Younglings disagree they do.’  Yoda poured out the tea.  ‘Last week as tall as Windu you were, this week as tall as Wookie.  Explain this how?’

Not willing to laugh and jar his injuries, he settled for shaking his head.  ‘Normally I am taller than Mace, but when I went to the check on Anakin in the initiates quarters a few weeks ago, I was still walking a bit stooped.  Last week, I was there with Master Kragshyk, who you must admit, is a bit short for a Wookie.’

‘Hrm.’  A graceful Force nudge and his tea cup slide across the low table.  Taking the soothing beverage, he nodded his thanks and sipped.  Yoda’s tea blends never failed to soothe an broken heart, or in his case, a weakened heart undergoing regeneration therapy, a still half-collapsed lung, a less than thrilled to be working spinal cord, various abused major blood vessels, a reconstructed liver, several knit-together muscle walls, and a large mass of modified synth-flesh where a chunk of his chest had simply been vaporized.

He was extraordinarily grateful to be alive to sip this tea, which tasted as if it had been brewed in an old boot.

They sat together for several moments in silence.

‘Has the Council considered my request?’

‘Refer to which request do you?’

‘To the more relevant one, Master.  As you will not allow me to take Anakin as my padawan until Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship is complete, I will not formally request the Council to reconsider the matter until Obi-Wan is knighted.  Unfortunately, the Council saw fit to send my padawan off to help renovate the Silvan Temple instead of completing his training while I was too near death to protest.’  He stared down at the small master.  ‘What I don’t understand, now that I am free from the vast majority of my mind-clouding painkillers, is why the Council has chosen to hold my padawan back.  If I am to be reprimanded for my actions, it is hardly fair to do so at my padawan’s expense.’

‘Hrm.  Protest this you would, if Anakin an issue was not?’

‘The Council is keeping my padawan from me because they feel I will shortchange his training?’

‘So quick you were for trial to send him, so adamant.  Clear it was, prepared him you had not.  Justified the Council’s doubts are.  Answer you will.  If Anakin you did not find, demand his trials would you?’

Qui-Gon stared pensively into Yoda’s ferns.  The elder master sipped his tea, awaiting his answer.

‘I would not demand it, no.  But I would still recommend it, particularly after the Naboo mission, assuming we had survived.’  Without Anakin’s intervention, death for both of them had been a reasonable possibility.  ‘He demonstrated he was capable of independent work, and was fit for his trials.  I would have begun his preparations when we returned had I not had other matters to attend, such as not dropping dead.’

‘Hrm.’

Qui-Gon drained the last of his life-affirming boot water.  ‘You disagree?’

‘Agree I do not, but know more I do.’

Qui-Gon waited patiently for the master to explain.  Impatience, even in one so battered as he, would not help his cause, nor Obi-Wan’s.

‘Ready for his trials Obi-Wan was in all ways, but emotional.  Ready to leave you he was not.  Mature enough, yes.  Ability to work independently, yes.  Realized this himself, not yet.  Reluctant you were to see this, reluctant you were to tell him.  Surprised you were to see this when cut through _your_ bias Anakin did.  Shocked, Obi-Wan was.  Very advanced student was he, with lesser master, knighted he would be already.  But learn from you, learn from your missions he did, and for greater good, remained your padawan he did.  Addressed this was to be at next performance review.’

Qui-Gon stared at the small master as if he had never seen him before.

‘You’re saying you felt _I_ was holding Obi-Wan back?’

‘Feels this way Council does.  But understand you must.  Detrimental to his training it was not to keep him as apprentice.  Blind to his growth you were.  Communicate it to him you did not.  Harmful to him that was.  When spoke we did, inform me he did that years from knighting he thought he was.  Not months.’

‘Years?!’  Qui-Gon nearly dropped his cup.  ‘Why didn’t he say something?’

Yoda peered at him pensively.  ‘His master you are, why say something you did not?’

For a moment, he was intensely grateful the small master had not said ‘his master you were;’ if nothing else, they didn’t hand his padawan off to another master as soon as he had woken from his coma.

‘How am I, as his master, supposed to remedy this now?  You’ve sent him away from me, the healers and the Council won’t clear me for travel, the planet is unsuitable for Jedi training and doesn’t even have holo communications, much less personal communications, and you won’t even tell me who is supervising his training or why he was sent there in the first place.  What am I supposed to do, Master?’

‘Focus on yourself you must.’  Qui-Gon opened his mouth to protest, but Yoda waved him to silence.  ‘Sent him to his trials you did.  “Learn nothing more from me, he can,” you said.  Agree Council does.  But ready he was not, and ready he still is not.  Hurt him you did, not prepared was he.  Traumatized by mission he also was.  Faced Sith he did, fought for life he did, see you struck down he did, faced his own demons he did.  Much to process has he, before serene enough for trials he will be.  Gain serenity while caring for stubborn master with rehab unlikely is.’  Yoda grew solemn.  ‘Lost his master he almost did.  Some ways, lost his master already he did.  Break from pressure Obi-Wan needs, not cruel surprises.’

Qui-Gon thought on this for a long time.  When he finally spoke, his voice sounded frightfully small.

‘You would tell me if he was dead, wouldn’t you, Master?  They keep telling me he isn’t dead, that you just sent him away, but no one will let me see him or let me look for him and I thought I saw him on Naboo, but I don’t know if it was real . . .’ he trailed off, sobbing.

Yoda came to him, a gentle Force push guided him to lay down, and the small master soothed him, brushing clawed fingers through his limp hair while a healing touch eased the painful spasms.

‘Listen to me you will.  Dead Obi-Wan is not.’  Qui-Gon choked on a sob.  ‘Angry he is, hurt his heart is.  Dead he is not.  Told me things in confidence he has.  Violate that I will not.  Ready to speak to you he is not.  Working with mind healers he is.  Working with own mind he is.  When ready he is, return for trials he will.  Faced his demons he will, face you then, he can.’  With care, Yoda turned the much larger man’s chin.  ‘Hate you he does not, though lesser man would.  Work you must on healing you.  Different man he will be, ready for that you must be.  Care for you he does, but many questions he has.  Answer him someday you must.  Prepare for that.’

‘Yes, Master.  I’m sorry I failed him, Master.  Please, could you tell him I’m sorry?  I know you can get word to him.  Please.  I feel terrible without him, but he has no one out there.’

Yoda looked at him as if he wanted to say something, a rebuke perhaps, but opted to stroke his head, as if deciding he wasn’t ready to hear it.  ‘Tell him I will.  Miss you he does too.’  The ancient master pulled away.  ‘Sent his assessments his instructors have.’  Slowly, Qui-Gon sat back up and breathed through the pain before taking the datapad.

‘These are Obi-Wan’s classes?  Studio in Art?  Mid-Rim Political History?  Studies in Sabre Technique?  Psychotherapy?  Where is his physical training?  And why does he only have three assessments?  Who selected these classes?’

‘Selected his classes with Depa I did.  Temporary masters we were when unable you were.  Psychotherapy a class is not.  Classified that assessment is.  Make appointment with therapist if wish to talk you do.  Physical training Obi-Wan can manage on his own.  Good preparation for knighthood that is.  Political History a knight level class is, Studies is assignment from Council.  Analyzing Sith technique he is.  Unique position to do so he is in.  Art for soul is.  Needed outlet he did.’ 

‘You feel this will prepare him for his trials?  What about the physical tests?  The oral exams?  The demonstrations of skill?’

‘Physical tests unnecessary in light of battle with Sith.  Passed that he has as far as Council is concerned.  Presentation of studies, history paper will suffice for oral exams.  psychological tests where Council concern lies.  Ready for that he is not, ready he will be.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘Eight standard months.’

If Qui-Gon had the strength, he would have shot to his feet.  Fortunately for the ornamental trees, he did not. 

‘Eight months!  Master, that’s a full year after Naboo.  Does he really need to be sitting around drawing cartoons and reviewing battle strategy for a year?’

Yoda glared at him. 

‘Yes.  Think on that you should.’

Yoda poured him another cup of tea.  The white tea pot glowed in the dim light as the room faded further into darkness.  Small votives cast a glow as the pot grew before him, handle and spout sprouting to limbs, the knob on the lid into a pale neck, the curved bottom moving toward his groin as if became, well, a curved bottom.

‘ _Oh,_ Obi-Wan,’ he moaned in his padawan’s ear as his urgent erection slid back into the impossibly tight passage, virgin no longer.  The pale, beautiful body beneath him glowed in the candlelight, glazed in sweat, usually radiant hair dark against his head.  Panting harshly, the boy writhed beneath him, his untutored body seeking the proper rhythm.

He nuzzled at his neck and shoulder, a deliberate love bite, before sliding his hand down his padawan’s slick chest, skirting his erection to settle on his hip.  He held him, not unlike he did when adjusting a sabre position, and guided him in the motion.  The body beneath him shuddered, but did not break from unison.

‘Can you feel me inside you?  You’re so tight, Obi-Wan.’  The movements established, he reached down, gripping the smooth penis bobbing under his thrusts.  His partner gasped sharply.  “Let me hear you!  Tell me how it makes you feel.’

Obi-Wan pressed his back up against him, eyes wide and wild.  ‘Sssso hard!  Ff-full!  Never felt this!’  He tensed, moaning, but the kept the rhythm.  ‘Force, it’s so . . . so deep, Mah- Master, I have to, I have to,’ he broke off moaning, trembling as he deepened the stroke, his hips rising forcefully to meet the invader.  Qui-Gon groaned as his lover ground into him.

He could sense a subtle shift, as Obi-Wan’s conscious mind gave itself over to instinct and the Force in lieu of active choreography.  In those rare moments this happened during katas, his form was radiant, brilliant.  Qui-Gon could only hope the same applied to sexual intercourse.

Qui-Gon adjusted his angle slightly and Obi-Wan winced, clamping his mouth shut, but keeping to the established rhythm.  The erection in his hand was weeping freely, now more slick with natural fluids than lubricant.  Obi-Wan began to push against him, against his groin, against his chest, and he followed the motion, until the youth was almost kneeling upright, his grip white-knuckled against the dark headboard.  The sleek young body between his legs tensed, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as each deep thrust was punctuated by an almost painful cry.  Before he could register concern, some block or tension in his padawan released and with a sudden, involuntary thrust, Obi-Wan plunged on him deeply, his passage gripping tightly as he cried out his release.

“Master!”

A shudder and Qui-Gon joined him, the firm constriction impossible to resist.  He groaned, thrusting in deep and shuddering, while their seed spilled together, inside and out.  Gasping for air, Qui-Gon sagged against his young lover, who shuddered for another long moment before collapsing onto the bed. 

With care, he released Obi-Wan’s penis and wrapped his arms around him, still buried inside him, for the moment unwilling to let him go.  Obi-Wan moaned on each exhale, each more softly than the last as he came down from the high and caught his breath.  Qui-Gon, still pressing their sweat-sheened bodies into the sheets, moved to kiss him, lingering at his temple, lips brushing over skin and damp, braided hair.  Obi-Wan’s trust and care had been even greater than his passion.  Qui-Gon had never felt so . . . honored before.  He did not want to let it go.

He had lived in the moment, fully, but the moment had passed.  He tightened his arms in one last embrace before pushing himself up with a grunt.  Obi-Wan took a deep gulp of air and sighed, twisting his face around to look at him.

‘Thank you, Master.  I, . . it was . . . I’ve never felt like that before.  Thank you.’

He pressed a kiss to his padawan’s shoulder, and when Obi-Wan settled, he turned his attention to his penis.  Taking care not to let the condom slip off, he slid out, smiling at Obi-Wan’s back as his young lover let out a contented hum as they separated.  Obi-Wan watched him dreamily, his expression sated as he stalked off to the fresher to dispose of the damn thing and wash his hands.

Still lying on the bed, Obi-Wan closed his eyes against the glare of the fresher light.  Qui-Gon grinned at him fondly, still not quite back to his masterly serenity.  When he finally glanced down to attend matters he gasped, his heart turned to ice.

Blood streaked his sheathed penis.

Hypnotized, he watched a single scarlet drop fell to the tiled floor, the sound echoing louder and louder in the stillness, multiplying into the sound of a thousand drops, a hundred thousand.  He closed his eyes against the terrible sight and the sound lessened.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself on the couch in his quarters, a gray fall rain spattering on the windows. 

Obi-Wan lay against him, asleep.

His love whimpered, some distressful dream no doubt, and with care, he pulled the fragile body against his chest.

Cradling the smaller man against him, he leaned down to whisper soothing words in his ear to calm his fretful sleep.  The room was warm but Obi-Wan was dressed in an oversized robe and wrapped in the gray blanket Shmi had given Anakin last winter.  Even so, the hand Qui-Gon held was cool, thin and bony.  Obi-Wan shuddered and he moved to hold him more securely, feeling ribs, shoulder blade, collarbone, far more prominent than they should be. 

‘No, . . . no . . . no,’  Obi-Wan muttered that single word, weak repetition. 

Qui-Gon kissed his forehead.  ‘It’s alright, Love.  Shhhh, it’s alright.  You’re safe.’

Shifting the younger man to face him, Qui-Gon checked his eyes.  As he suspected, they had rolled back into his head, the ghastly expression familiar from Obi-Wan’s teenage years onward.  His former padawan was in the throes of a Force vision.  Obi-Wan moved spasmodically, lashes fluttering over the bright whites of his eyes.  ‘No . . . no . . . no . . .’

At least this time he wasn’t screaming.

A vein throbbed at his temple, distinct in his too thin face.  Deep circles ran under his still pupil-less eyes, his lips were dry, chapped, his hair thin, a shock of white running through dull red-brown. 

‘No . . . no . . .’  Obi-Wan gasped shallowly, then began to tremble, his vision ending.  The shaking was weaker, more subdued than usual, but with his poor health and age this was to be expected.  For a brief moment, he wondered if Obi-Wan would lose control of his bladder but before he could complete the thought, the sickly man stilled. 

Painful, labored breathing told of congested lungs.  He would have to watch that carefully.

A movement at the door caught his eye, and he watched, mesmerized as a brightness, pure and white, coalesced before it floated across the room, settling just beyond the tea table to contemplate them.  Hovering just above the floor, beautiful, it swirled like a turbulent storm on Bespin as seen from space.  He stared at it, felt himself speaking to it, communing with this familiar form.  It was larger now, more distinct, and in the way of dreams, though he could not sense its intent, he knew, deep in his bones, that it had one now.

He had seen this thing before, this manifestation of the Force before, though it had no name beyond what he called it.  It spoke to him at times, at some level his conscious mind could not grasp, dancing for him, more clear with each visit, its form growing and changing and constantly moving, as if movement and change were its only means of  existence.  And always it came in dreams that he struggled to remember, dreams too disturbing with their vague phantoms to explain and discuss with his elders.  He had confessed seeing this brightness once to his healers while he had been recovering from Naboo.  They had told him it was likely due to the low oxygen to the brain when been on the respirator, a relatively mild side effect of the marathon surgery that had stabilized him.  He was told to what other signs to look out for, but other than that it was nothing to worry about.

But the healers didn’t understand.  They didn’t know.  Because the brightness had come before, just once before, when he hadn’t been asleep.  It had come before the surgery, before the respirator, before the blow from the Sith had shaken loose a few million brain cells from the rattled, agitated mass he called his brain.

He had seen it, a small, tiny thing, hovering over him on Naboo, as he lay dying on the cold, steel floor.  He had spoken his peace, wiped away his padawan’s tears, and resigned himself to the Force as the love of his life, he could admit it then, faded from view, calling after him, ever more desperately, leaving only an endless dark, and the brightness. 

Warmth, peace, the promise of joy.  And now it was settling on Obi-Wan, creeping across his feet.

He knew what it was.  He had a name for it.  He knew why it was there.

It began to shine brighter, pulsing, and Obi-Wan’s head turned toward it, like a heliotrope to the sun.  Qui-Gon glanced between them, wrapping his arms more tightly around the slight frame.

He stared down this welcoming nightmare. 

‘You can’t have him.’

He looked down at his hands, engulfing Obi-Wan’s frail, cold fingers.

Death crept closer.

“You can’t have him!”

He woke with a start, almost flying up to meet his foe in battle.

_What the hell?_

Outside, it was full dark, the moon beginning to rise.  He was still on Silva.  Obi-Wan was still young, still healthy, five buildings away.  And he was Qui-Gon Jinn, master of the Living Force, and not prone to Force visions, true or otherwise.

He caught his breath, surprised to be hyperventilating. 

_I should do something._

No clear course of action came to mind.  What exactly should he do?  Call his former apprentice?  Tell him he saw him old, sick and dying?  Tell him to get a check up?  Or to lock his doors against crazy Force hallucinations brought on by the brain damage of old men?

Yes, he could really see that going a long way toward mending fences.  And then maybe Obi-Wan would kiss him, turn him against the wall, fuck him senseless and they would live happily ever after.  Not in this galaxy.  Not the Obi-Wan he knew.

Or used to know.

And it was just a dream anyway.  A stupid dream, probably brought on by the guilt he felt over assaulting his former padawan the day before.  He had hit Obi-Wan in the eye, so that explained the deep circles, and he had even told Yoda that his former apprentice had looked careworn, so his dream was just an exaggeration of his belated concern.  Yes, that explained it.

And Death, well, Death could mean lots of things in dreams.  And it usually meant change, not mortality.  He remembered something from his own padawan studies.

The end of their relationship.  The end of hope.  The signal that it was time to move on.

Maybe that was what the warm welcome meant.  That he would not be alone forever, even if everything he had ever had or wanted with Obi-Wan was over.  Now that he had to accept it, as painful as it was, maybe he could find another loving soul to share his life, instead of just screwing the next Senate aide who asked to see his Jedi lightsabre.

Dreams were rarely literal.  Even Force seers knew that.

Besides, it couldn’t have been the literal future.  Obi-Wan had been older, at least fifteen or twenty years older than he was now.  What few Force dreams he had had before had been of the immediate future, a day or a week at most.  Not decades from now.

No, it couldn’t have been literal, because in the dream Obi-Wan had been a sickly old man, but his own hands hadn’t aged a day.

The door banged open, dismissing any further speculation as something to meditate on later.  Wiping sleep from his eyes, Qui-Gon looked up to see his apprentice stride into the room.

His rather damp and dripping wet apprentice.

Who had just returned from his first game of Kiss and Tell.

“Did you lose your serenity, Padawan?”

Anakin turned to glare at him, practically daring him to laugh.  “No, Master.  The young couple kissing next to me _lost their serenity_ and Master Helm has really crappy aim for a Jedi Master!”

Qui-Gon looked him up and down.  That certainly explained the full frontal assault.  Most moderators tried to hit couples from the side.  It helped to get both partners equally wet to avoid incriminating either one.

“When exactly were you planning on mentioning the long-hallowed Jedi practice of hosing down their padawans when they got too horny?”

Qui-Gon’s mouth twitched.  “I’m sorry, Anakin.  I thought you knew about that.”

“Well, I didn’t!”

“Yes, I can see that.”

Anakin began to pace, the socks in his boots squelching.  “Everyone else knew what was coming and everyone else got out of the way, and there I was, sitting there, wondering where to look while these two padawans, who hate each other by the way, start sucking each other’s tongues out, and just when the Force patterns started to get really intense, in that TMI sort of way, this blast of water comes shooting out of the kitchen and hits them, hits me, and . . . and they soaked me!  I looked like an idiot!”

“I’m sure some of the young ladies appreciated seeing you wet, Padawan.”

“Master!  You’re _not_ helping!”

“TMI?”

“Too much information.”

“Ah.”

He tried not to remember Obi-Wan’s tantrum the one time he had come home hosed.  Xanatos always came back drenched.  His peers had called him the Telosian Tongue Twister.  Qui-Gon had not investigated that one further.

“If it’s any consolation, Padawan, hosing is almost a Jedi rite of passage.  You are fortunate in that the slip of control was not your own.  And while you were out, housekeeping sent our laundry, fresh towels, and some dinner.  Why don’t you go wash up and throw your clothes into the drying unit.  We aren’t leaving for five more hours, so you’ll have plenty of time, and will probably feel better.”

“Thank you, Master, that’s a good idea.”  Without further drama, Anakin walked toward the fresher, shedding and discarding his wet clothes as he went.  “Are you feeling better?” he called back, almost as an afterthought.

“Much, Padawan.  Thank you.”

The shower started.  “Were you dreaming, Master?  Every time I checked on you, you had your _Massive Death Shields_ up like you do when you dream.”

_Massive Death Shields?_

“Um, yes, Padawan.  It’s an unfortunate side effect of the anti-viral medication.”

A blond head and a naked torso poked out the fresher door, blond braid coming undone.  “Well, I hope they were good dreams, Master.  See you in a few.”  And with that the door shut, leaving a somewhat perturbed Jedi Master to the Chosen One to be grateful for his unconscious _Massive Death Shields_.  There were some dreams Anakin was better off not knowing about.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the last chapter, thank you everyone for reading!

* * *

 

Dinner was a mostly silent affair; the apprentice ate as if he had been starved for a week while the master quietly brooded and moved his vegetables around.  The meal finished, Qui-Gon took his last dose of anti-histamine, then opted to finally shower and dress.  With their departure time creeping closer, Anakin finished their packing while his mentor bathed.  In a somewhat generous mood after their tumultuous stay, he had washed Qui-Gon’s muddied clothes while he had laundered his own, so at least the somewhat-less-insufferable man wouldn’t be itchy during the overnight journey.  _Or smell like a fish_.  Despite his diligent efforts the night before, the clothes had still retained a faint odor.

Perhaps his newfound generosity was a bit self-serving.

With his master still fussing in the ‘fresher, Anakin scanned their guest apartment, searching out tossed-away socks and misplaced datapads, and tried to shake off his gloomy mood.  They were leaving, and he should be glad of it.  They were going back home, to that place of obnoxious harmony, but at least it was a place where his master was sane and normal, and Obi-Wan Kenobi was just someone who used to live in his room a long time ago, and not someone who could have Qui-Gon thrown into a detention cell. 

Strangely, Anakin didn’t want to leave.

_Maybe because no one is willing to kiss you at home._

Grumbling, he got down on his hands and knees and peered under the couch.  Master Qui-Gon always got pissed when he just lifted guest furniture with the Force to look underneath.  ‘Scared the natives’ he said.

Nothing of value lay beneath, although he did find several used tissues, and he did use his midichlorian given powers to root them out and levitate them to the trash receptacle.  Even his master refused to touch someone else’s used snot rags if no one was looking.  And that kind of Force-use actually seemed to amuse most natives.  Blatant powers to move heavy objects were terrifying, but apparently refusing to touch little bitty tissues was _cute_. 

Not that anyone around here would particularly care, considering they all can do it too.

The recycler lid slammed shut, the tissues well on their way to a germy afterlife.  Anakin looked around, mentally listing all of his completed tasks.  They were ready to leave.  The bags were packed, the room was put to rights.  There might still be some debris in the refresher, but Master Qui-Gon was a big boy and he could pick his own hair out of the drain-catch.  Unfortunately, there was a good hour left until they could board. 

He wondered which would be worse, to wait out there hoping nothing would happen, or to sit here in this stuffy room for another hour in awkward silence.  Thanks to his damn Jedi efficiency, he didn’t even have homework to occupy his time.

Qui-Gon finally left the refresher and headed toward his room, hair damp, to put on his socks and boots, still looking rather perturbed.  Anakin glanced back toward the shower in the dim.  Perhaps he could use up some time checking that drain.

He had almost convinced himself that Master Jinn’s sheddings would be a wonderful way to waste a quarter of an hour when the ever-annoying door chime rang.  He froze, having been so caught up in his efforts to distract himself that he hadn’t noticed anyone approaching.  With less than his usual subtlety, he Force-scanned the visitor, trying to decide whether this was friend or foe.

The Force remained silent on the matter.

Cautious and frowning, Anakin opened the door.

“Master Helm?”

The tall Prudaenian loomed over him, a slight smile crinkling his eyes.  He seemed friendly enough but—

“Hello, Padawan Skywalker.”  He thrust out a hand, surprisingly well-manicured for a male, but then he was also a diplomat.  He grinned wider as Anakin shook it politely.  “I hear you did very well in our negotiations workshop.  It’s not every day that our young ones think to start a revolution.”

Anakin stared up at him blankly.  For all that the man was complimenting his academic achievements, he was also shielding quite strongly.  His respect seemed genuine, and there seemed no danger, but something was a bit off.

A moment of silence went on a beat too long and Anakin kicked himself mentally into responding.  “Um, uh thank you, Master Helm.”  His answering grin was more nervous than sheepish.  “It’s, um, I honestly didn’t think it would work out so well at the time.”

The master’s grin remained but as he looked past Anakin’s shoulder, the congratulatory look momentarily faded from eyes.  Master Qui-Gon had entered the room and his padawan didn’t need the Force to feel two sets of masterly eyes locking for a moment.

Just before a shiver could quite grip his spine, the Prudaenian’s eyes thawed and he pumped Anakin’s hand one more time before releasing it.  “I also wanted to say how glad I was that you were able to make friends during your short stay.  I’m sure our students will look forward to seeing your welcoming face when they begin their senior studies on Coruscant in the near future.”

Whatever was going to happen, it was clear from the Force that it didn’t involve him.  Master Helm was shielding against Master Jinn, and as far as Anakin could tell, the praise seemed quite genuine. 

“Thank you, Master Helm.  I look forward to renewing those friendships.”

“Excellent.  Please know that we look forward to you visiting us again.”  With a final warm smile, the master nodded and then looked beyond him toward Qui-Gon.  Once again, a chill crept into his eyes, though his voice remained unchanged.  “Now, if you would please be so kind as to excuse us, I must speak with your master.  Privately.”

Anakin glanced back at Qui-Gon uncertainly.  While the Force bore no hint of danger, it didn’t take the Chosen One to know that for his master at least, the poodoo had hit the fan. 

His sabaac face in place, Master Jinn stared back at his superior.  “Anakin, if the packing is complete, please take our bags down to the loading platform and check them.”  A look passed between the two masters and Qui-Gon waited for Helm’s nod before continuing.  “I will join you shortly.”

Ani’s eyes shifted from one to the other, concerned.  Knight Kenobi had implied he wouldn’t file charges against Qui-Gon, but then again he was only a knight.  Master Helm on the other hand was the head of the temple.  And he had come here to speak with Master Qui-Gon personally.  Anakin wondered what else his master might have done during his uncharacteristic loss of temper.

Giving his master a wary look, Anakin gathered up the bags.  Qui-Gon moved to hold one back, not wanting the boy to strain himself, but the Prudaenian intervened, stepping back to open the door. 

“I hope you don’t mind, Padawan Skywalker, but I enlisted Padawan Ovahni to assist you in carrying your luggage.” 

Anakin peered around the tall master to find Edan lying in wait.  Apparently luggage was a standard ‘get rid of the padawan so we can talk’ tactic.  Suppressing a sigh, Ani passed two large duffels toward his still flirtatious companion, then gathered the rest.  So much for his excuse that he didn’t know the way.  As he passed, Master Helm gave him a polite nod.  If nothing else, the elder master’s message was clear; he harbored no ill will toward the youth.

Then the door closed behind him with a cold thud, producing a true shiver he could not suppress.

“You okay, Ani?” 

Anakin stared at Edan suspiciously.  The other boy actually seemed concerned.

“Yes,” he grumbled after a moment.  “I just . . . it’s . . .”

“You don’t like seeing your master in trouble.”

“How did you know?”  How could anyone know?  _Did he punch Kenobi out in front of the whole compound and nobody told me?_

Edan shrugged and started walking toward the stairs.  “It’s a small temple, Ani.  And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who gave Knight Kenobi that shiner, even if it did take most of us until after dinner.  We wouldn’t call him ‘the Decimator’ if he was that lousy at blocking.”

“They, um, had a fight.”  Anakin hurried after the other boy.  “I don’t know the details.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and headed out into the night.  The air had cooled but not unpleasantly so.  Small insects chirped in the flowerbeds and nightbeasts slipped through the sky like phantoms, catching flitting insects.  Eschewing Jedi wisdom for gossip, neither padawan paid their surroundings any mind.

“Well, obviously they had a fight.  And no one knows the details, actually, so far as I can tell.”  Edan snorted.  “Kenobi is discreet, so unless your master is a blabbermouth, we won’t ever know.  Not that it’s any of our business, but . . .” he sighed.  “Adults can be really shitty sometimes.  And it really takes a lot to piss off Helm.  A _lot_.”  Edan stopped and set his bags down on a low bench and signaled for tram.  Both boys settled down to wait. 

“You don’t think Master Helm is going to arrest him, do you?”  Later Anakin would be shocked that his control had slipped enough to ask such a thing, especially from this particular padawan he barely knew and did _not_ want to know better.  But for now he could use all the reassurance he could get.  Argus Helm was completely unknown to him.  At least a pissed-off Windu was still somewhat predictable.

Edan gave him a disbelieving look.  “Um, I don’t know how they run things at your temple, but I kind of doubt Master Helm would take little old me with him to arrest a master.”  Suddenly his usual sly demeanor returned.  “That’s not to say that I don’t have my talents of course, but even I am not quite up to challenging rogue Jedi.”  He shrugged.  “I don’t know Ani, but I’d guess Helm just wants to chew him out.”

“Oh.”

“Yup.”

Anakin was silent for a moment.  “What are they saying?” 

“Hmm?”

He chewed his lip nervously.  “Are they saying what happened?  What my master did?  He didn’t tell me anything and I . . .   I just want to know what to expect.”

“You mean ‘what are the gossips like us saying?’”  When Anakin nodded, he paused a moment, thinking.  “Well, nothing very nice.”  Edan sighed and scuffed his foot as Anakin continued to stare expectantly.  “Look Ani, I know that this sort of stuff doesn’t tend to happen at the other temples, or if it does it gets swept under the rug better, but here they actually openly talk about these things.  No, they aren’t saying anything very nice about your master, but they aren’t saying he’s a monster either.  Everyone is just kind of pissed at him.”  He shrugged.  “I know it seems like all us young padawans do is lust after Kenobi, but he’s actually quite respected here, even though he isn’t anywhere else.  Whatever he might have done to your master, he didn’t deserve that, and your master is a Jedi.  We’re tolerant here because we know Jedi _are mere mortals and prone to error_ ,” this last was said in tone Ani recognized as an imitation of Master Helm.  “But losing control and smacking people around?  No, we don’t allow that here.  Jedi get beat up enough by the rest of the universe.  The temple should be safe.”

That sat in silence for a long moment.

“Does he ever hit you?”

“What?!”

Edan rolled his eyes.  Flirtatious glances were his strong suit, not sympathetic looks.  “Your master,” he clarified.  “Does he ever hit _you_?”

Anakin looked at him, horrified by the idea.  Not that he hadn’t worried about it for years when he was younger.  “No, he _never_ hits me, beyond the usual training taps.  It took me years to believe that, because other people used to hit me, but he doesn’t.  Not even when my own mother would have.”  _And has._   He had learned the hard way that doing something reckless and terrifying, like garbage pit racing, was going to disappoint his caregivers, but unlike his master, his mother would indeed express that disappointment physically.  “How could you even ask that?”

Edan did not look offended.  “Kenobi was his padawan too, and he sure hit him.  And outside of sabre training, Kenobi never talks about him.  _Never_.  And when he rarely does, it’s always ‘Qui-Gon Jinn’s wrist block,’ or ‘Jinn’s Fifth Kata.’  He never calls him ‘my master.’”  He shrugged.  “Force, the only way we even knew was Jinn’s padawan was from learning about the Sith on Naboo.”

Anakin would have found this comment odd if he hadn’t already had the somewhat bizarre experience of studying his master’s life in sabre class.  Or his own in Modern Jedi History, for that matter.  There had been an extensive section about how he, as an untrained Force user, had commandeered a fighter, mastered its controls, and then blown up the droid control ship.  A lesson to all young initiates and newly-minted padawans that with the Force, one could do anything.  He never did figure out how to explain to the instructor that most of his actions had been unintentional.  Obi-Wan had been mentioned only once.  He had been ‘present.’

Which now that he thought about it, was somewhat odd, considering his predecessor had actually killed a Sith.  Intentionally.

At least according to Master Jinn he did, or at least according to him when he would still talk about Obi-Wan.  Since he had stopped, a rumor claimed that Master Jinn had really dealt the killing blow, and only attributed it to Obi-Wan to rush through his knighting.  Of course, the gossipmongers failed to explain how his master had managed to do this with a giant hole through his chest.

Anakin mentally shrugged.  He hadn’t actually been there, and apparently the computer reenactments and security footage of the battle wasn’t shown to students until Senior Padawan Advanced Combat Techniques.  Another year or two and he would know, because he sure wasn’t going to ask his master to clarify that particular question.  If there was anything his master avoided talking about more than his former padawan, it was rumors about his former padawan.

The silence began to get uncomfortable, but before Anakin could think of something else to say, the tram pulled up.  Sparing a glance of concern back toward the guesthouse, he dutifully stowed the bags and got on board.  Without a word, flirtatious or otherwise, Edan followed suit.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t come back.”

Qui-Gon stared at the tall Prudaenian, dumbfounded.  “What did you say?”

Argus Helm gaze was cold and serene.  “Don’t come back.  You are not welcome to return here.”

Qui-Gon returned the chill in kind.  “I was under the impression that the Silvan Temple was renowned for it’s tolerance of mortal flaws.”

The Prudaenian’s expressive eye ridges tightened, before his whole faced smoothed to a calm mask.  “Not at the expense of loyalty to our own.  To those who have earned that loyalty.”

A long moment of silence.  “You were once my ally.”

“I was.”

“Does that count for nothing?”

The elder master didn’t flinch.  “That is why you have not been held in a cell and why you are not being sent to the magistrate.  I trust you enough to leave without any more trouble.”

“I see.” 

Helm eyed him carefully.  _No, I really don’t think you do_.  “I am not yet an old man Qui-Gon, but I have been around for a very long time.  Not as long as Yoda, but long enough to remember all the coldness and emotional abuse you put up with as Dooku’s padawan.  Don’t defend him to me,” he said as Qui-Gon moved to argue.  “He had many good qualities but he also made you jump through far too many hoops, offered you too little praise, and was about as warm as a Hoth night.  I tried to provide you with a better example, to show you that a Jedi should also be compassionate, not judgmental.  I see that lesson has been thoroughly forgotten.”

Qui-Gon bit back sudden anger.  “He was my padawan.  Of course I will judge him.  His deplorable and dishonorable behavior is a reflection on—,”

“You.” 

“What?”

“The incident yesterday wasn’t about him, Qui-Gon.  It was about _you_.”

Qui-Gon stared at his elder, confused.

“Deplorable?  Dishonest?  Do you really think he doesn’t know how quickly you replaced him?  Not just Anakin, but a new lover to warm your bed?  Do you think he doesn’t hear about every single conquest you have?  That he doesn’t know about all the diplomats you’ve seduced to push through a treaty, or the whores you’ve paid for, not to mention the young knights, his own agemates, that you’ve fucked and left behind, just like him?  Do you really think we’re so far away, and that his vilified name is so forgotten, that no one ever tells him exactly what you do with your time?  Who exactly is being dishonest here?”

 “I have, I have been discreet!” Qui-Gon sputtered as rage warred with mortification. 

“No,” Argus whispered, pointedly.  “You haven’t.”  He closed his eyes, seeking his own center, and Qui-Gon suddenly realized he wasn’t the only seething Jedi in the room.  “I am sorry that I was not a better example to you, Qui-Gon.  I could only take the cold so long myself without withering.  I only wish you had been knighted first, but that was not possible.  That being said, you are not a child anymore, and while you are not at fault for your upbringing, you alone are responsible for your actions now.  You are more than old enough to know better.  And so am I.”

The Prudaenian turned to face him, standing to his full height, hair spines rising into a crest and eyeridges extended.  An intimidating position that actually put the senior master several centimeters above Jinn’s height.  “Dooku put you through a Sith’s hell.  Don’t you think for a Force-damned second that I will let you put him through the same.”

Slowly, the elder backed down.  “You will confine yourself to your quarters for the duration of your journey.” 

Qui-Gon was visibly taken aback.  “Master, I assure you, I will not cause any further disturbance on the trip.”

“No, you won’t, because you’ll be in your quarters.  For all that you have spent the day in seclusion, your shields are abominable and your temper is frayed.  I won’t have our young passengers exposed to that on their voyage.”

Jinn closed his eyes, willing acceptance.  “Yes, Master Helm.”

“I’ve also written an order of protection on behalf of Knight Kenobi.  You are not to see him, speak to him, seek him out, or get within 100 meters of him while you are on this planet, is that clear?”

“He asked you to do that?”

Helm raised a single eye ridge.  “No, he didn’t.  He doesn’t know about it actually.  Kenobi seemed to think you would regain your self-control if you weren’t provoked.  I’m not leaving it to chance.  Obi-Wan is one of my finest knights and instructors.  He also has far too many burdens on his shoulders for one so young.  I won’t tolerate you adding to them.”

Jinn closed his eyes again, this time in shame.  Helm was right.  His reactions had been about himself.  His anger.  His hurt.  His outrage.  He had never considered that Obi-Wan may have been punished by others.  Argus Helm, though compassionate, was not the kind to coddle faults, sweep away mistakes or leave injustices to fester.  And he was discreet.

“May I see him, before I leave.  I don’t want this to go on anymore.  May I just talk to him?”

For a moment, Helm looked appalled.  “No.  No you may not ‘see him.’  You had all night last night to ‘see him’ and all day today before I found out what happened.  Now I do know and you _will_ leave him alone.”

“You can’t keep him from me.  He is an adult.”

The Prudaenian’s crest rose in warning.  “I can and I will.  And you can tell that little green troll you hide behind that he can shove his gimer stick up his ass before he sends you here again.  Obi-Wan isn’t ready to face you.”  The elder master turned and walked toward the door.

“That is not for you to decide.”

Helm paused, his hand on the door.

“As angry as you are right now, Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a good man, an exceptional knight, and a credit to your training.  He performs his duties and takes responsibility for his mistakes.”  The elder turned back, glaring.  “He has shown his strength of character, time and time again, and it is because of his integrity that he is welcome here, and you are not.  He _will_ face you someday, and then you will be the one who will have to answer for _your_ mistakes.  But I won’t make him face you until he is ready.”

Qui-Gon swallowed down a protest.  It would not help.  Yes, he had made mistakes, but hardly the ones his elder had implied. 

_You certainly never ‘replaced’ him_.

Not effectively anyway.

“When do you expect he will be ready, Master?”

Argus Helm gave him a long, cool look before replying.  “He’ll be ready when he sees you and the first thing he does is tell you to go screw yourself.”  The Prudaenian turned away, not bothering to watch as Qui-Gon picked his jaw off the floor.  “Your ship should be boarding shortly.”  He opened the door.  “Knights Eskvar and Vesop will escort you to the landing platform.  May the Force be with you.”

 

* * *

 

“Well there’s one thing I still don’t understand.”

“Yes?”

Ani’s eyes ran over the boarding terminal walls as he tried to word the question.  Eventually he settled for blunt. 

“Do you like boys or girls?”

Edan laughed outright.  “Yes.”

“What?”

The dark-haired boy laughed harder.  “Yes, I like both boys and girls.  I’m young.  Why limit myself?”

Anakin frowned.  “But why?”  He flushed as he realized how silly a question it was.  “I mean, I understand that I like girls and I understand that some people don’t, but you just like,” he waved his hand vaguely.  “Everybody?”

“Why shouldn’t I?  And no, I don’t happen to like _everybody_.”  Edan shrugged.  “Goober is a good friend, but I really don’t want to kiss him on either mouth.  Sil’s kind of cold.  I’d kiss her I guess, but I’d never go out with her.  And you?”  He turned to look at Anakin appraisingly.  “You’re just cute.”

Anakin blushed to the roots of his hair.  “Um, thanks.”

“You’ve also got a brain, and can string together more than two coherent sentences.  And you didn’t run away, even when I obviously made you uncomfortable.  You’re a challenge Ani.”  There was slightly less smirk in Edan’s grin.  “I rise to challenges.”

“Like Melexi?”

They both laughed.  “Melexi, yes, well Melexi is a long-term project.  We need some way to channel our lustful thoughts and energies until we have permission to lose our virginity.  And I know I won’t go all the way with her because Mel would probably kill me first.”

“Great strategy there.  Chastity or death.”

“Well, Ani, these are the sacrifices that the modern Jedi padawan just has to make.  At least they only make us wait until we’re eighteen.  In the early days, chastity was part of the padawan vows.  You couldn’t do it until you were knighted.  And some didn’t even then.  Let’s here it for more liberal Code interpretations.”

Anakin smiled faintly.  “I’m sure my master won’t argue that one.”

“Hmm,” Edan replied.  “Radical Jinn.” 

They were silent for a few moments.

“Alright my fellow Admitted Jedi Virgin, I have a question for you too,” Edan turned to face him.

Anakin wasn’t quite sure he would like to answer Edan’s question without a helpful moderator monitoring with a ready hose, but he wasn’t going to be rude.  “Uh, okay.”

Nor eloquent apparently.

“Why does it make you uncomfortable when another boy likes you?”

“Um, erm.”  Anakin ran a hand through his short hair, mulling over his answer.  “It’s not that I have a problem with homosexuality.  I mean, I’ve um, walked in on my master enough times to get used to it by now.  But, I’m just not.”  He shrugged.  “Maybe it’s because I wasn’t born in the Temple.  I was nine before I left Tattooine, which is controlled by the Hutts by the way.  I guess, it’s just that if a man looked at you that way there, more likely than not, it was trouble.  Or at least we were told to think it was.  Keep us safe and wary I guess.”

Edan seemed torn between sympathy and amusement.  “Walking in on your master must have been kind of unexpected then.”

Anakin began to laugh in spite of himself.  “You could say that.  I still can’t look at that knight without blushing.”

“Masters, ha.  There is no passion, my ass.”

“Padawan Ovahni!  You will watch your language in front of the younglings!” 

Both boys turned in shock to see an Initiate Master herding at least thirty small children into boarding terminal in two straggling lines.  Up past their bedtime, the youngsters yawned and rubbed at their eyes.

“My apologies, Master Succor.  I did not realize the senior initiates were going to Coruscant tonight.”

Anakin paled.  Thirty little crèche monsters.  Suddenly he stopped wondering what exactly Master Helm had been hinting at this morning.

One little boy pushed to the edge of the group nearest the two padawans, beaming.  “Bye Donny!  We’re going to go get Masters.”

Edan grinned back at the little boy waving at him frantically.  “I’m sure you will!” 

“You’ll come visit?”

“You bet!  In another year.  Just try not to get a master before then, you!”

The child grinned back.  “You bet!”  A nudge from the Initiate Master and the conversation ended as the group boarded.

Edan looked slightly sheepish.  “Keb is my cousin.”

“Is everyone in your family a Jedi?”

“Oh, no.”  The dark-haired boy laughed.  “Even the ‘Force gene’ doesn’t always hit everybody.  My mom was just made a master, my dad’s in the Agri-Corp, studies cold weather grain crops.  I have a sister who is probably going to be a healer unless she decides to be a real oddball and go into the performing arts.  Keb’s mother, my mom’s sister, is a non-Jedi healer, Force-sensitive, but not enough to be picked up.  She was so grateful that Keb was strong enough because, um, he was ‘unplanned’ as they say.  With my mom as her sister, she still gets to visit with him, and he’s kind of like a little brother to me.  On my dad’s side, Master Gorunku is actually my great uncle.”

“Really?  I had him for philosophy class.”

“You poor, poor padawan.  He’s dry as dust and boring as h-, I mean heck.”

“Well, yes,” Ani replied.  “But I wasn’t going to say so.”

“What about you?” Edan looked at him, curiously.  “Who gave you all your midi-chlorians?”

“Um, I actually don’t know much.”  _Slaves don’t get to keep their families._   Anakin winced at the memory.  “My mom would never have been a Jedi, but she definitely has some abilities—”

“Anakin.”  Without warning, Master Jinn was suddenly upon them, flanked by two knights.  Anakin looked up uncertainly.

“Come, Padawan.  We should get onboard.”

“Yes, Master.”  Quickly, Anakin gathered the small bags, the larger ones having already been checked, then nodded to Edan.  “Goodbye, Edan.  Thanks for . . . your support.”

Edan grinned slyly for a moment, but a glance at Qui-Gon’s stony countenance wiped the look away.  “You’re welcome Ani.  Take care, and be sure to come visit us again.  Or we’ll just have to visit you.”  The dark-haired boy stood, looked pointedly at the towering master’s still bandaged hand, then looked up at him, his face expressionless.  “Master Jinn.”  With a nod, Edan left.

With Knights Eskvar and Vesop forming a strange dishonor guard, master and padawan were escorted on board, leaving the strange soothing calm of the temple for . . . utter pandemonium.

Crèche monsters.  Dozens of crèche monsters.  With the close quarters of the main shuttle compartment, Ani was certain they must have doubled in number. 

“Look!  Itsa mastuur!”

“Hi Jedi Master!”

“He’s got a braid!  We’re going to have braids soon too!”

“Master Succor!  Master Succor!  I don’t have hair!  I can’t be a padawan!”

“I want my Patry!”

“Can I try your lightsabre?  Please?”

Dazed, Ani allowed Knight Vesop to lead him and his master to the rear compartment, thankfully a sleeping compartment.  Once inside, Vesop ordered them to strap themselves in, then secured the door.  The squealing little voices quieted marginally. 

Anakin took advantage of his master’s new melancholy by taking the window seat.  Once he learned to fly a vehicle, even a clunky hyperspace transport like this one, he despised being a mere passenger.  At least at the window he felt like he had some influence on where they were going.  Not that he did, but at least he could watch.

Lost in thought, staring at nothing, Qui-Gon didn’t object.  Ani tried to be concerned by he was just too tired to care right now.  Tired of anxiety and worry.  Content in his apathy, he let his master be, accepting the calm, even if for Qui-Gon it was a bitter one.  Settling in for launch, he looked out into the Silvan night, glad to be going home and leaving the ugliness behind, but already missing the good things.

The space captain’s voice came in over the cabin speaker, beginning the countdown.  Through the windows of the boarding terminal, Anakin caught sight of a hooded Jedi, watching the now-sealed ship prepare for launch.  For a moment he thought it might be Edan before he realizing his agemate had not been wearing a robe and that this person was a bit wider in the shoulders, full grown.  Without conscious thought, Anakin reached out in the Force, startled by the impenetrability of the Jedi’s shields.

Chosen one or not, it took him a moment to identify the man as Knight Kenobi. 

Qui-Gon did not appear to notice.

As the thrusters began to fire, a second Jedi joined him at the terminal window, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze.  Like his former master, Obi-Wan seem to notice.

The transport lifted out into the Silvan night, a pale silver streak into the distant night of space.

“He’s gone now, Obi-Wan.”

Silence.

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

“Hrm, very rash you were to send him there.  Think it was I who sent him, Master Helm does.  Very upset he is.  Blame him I can not.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Very rash.  Very.  What reason had you to send him there?”

“They both need to confront this, Master.  They can’t go on like this.  Whether they stay together or stay apart, he has to tell him.”

“Tell him, he did not.”

Silence.

“I believed the Force was guiding me to send him there, Master.  I am surprised that they were not able to form some kind of resolution.”

“Hrrm, clean up your mess now I must, but believe you I do.  No selfishness in your motives.”

“Then why was the problem not resolved?  I must have been mistaken.”

“Mistaken, no.  Send him I would have myself, but not the will of the Force it was.  Trust me he would not, if sent him in blind I had.”

“I see.”

“Dislike you he does already.  Like you less he will not.”

“Of course.”  Whispering now, though there was no one there to overhear.  “The boy is coming in a year’s time.  What are we going to do then?  We can’t hide it when he’s in the same temple.”

A sigh.  “Easy it is to hide from those refusing to see.  Follow the Force we will.”

“Is he really that stubborn that he can’t see it?”

A glare.

“More obvious questions for me you have today?”

“No, Master.”

“Meeting his shuttle I am.  Leave now I must.”

“May the Force be with you, Master.”

The small clawed hand gently patted a bent knee.  “In this, with you, the Force was.  Provide an answer the Force will.  But not now.  Not now.”  The elder hobbled out of the room.

The other stared after him, then closed his eyes and released his anxiety to the Force.

“Any time now would be great."

 


End file.
